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THE RED 
VINEYARD 



















Rev. B. J. Murdoch 





THE RED VINEYARD 


BY 

REV, B. J, MURDOCH 

J it 

LATE CHAPLAIN TO CANADIAN EXPEDITIONARY 

FORCES 




THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA 
1923 












Copyright 1923 by 
Flora Warren Seymour 



JUL -9 ’23 


* 


DONE BY 

THE BOOKFELLOWS 
AT 

THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS 
IOWA 


© Cl A752061 


THE RED VINEYARD 


To the memory of all those men 
With whom I walked up and down 
The ways of The Red Vineyard; 

But especially to the memory of those 
Who stopped in the journey, and now 
Rest softly in their little green bivouacs 
In the shadow of the small white crosses, 
This book is affectionately dedicated by their 
Friend and Comrade 


The Author 













CONTENTS 


Chapter I — A Little Speculation . . 11 

Chapter II — The Bishop Writes ... 13 

Chapter III — A Little Adjusting . . 16 

Chapter IV — The Portable Altar . . 19 

Chapter V — In Training Camp ... 21 

Chapter VI — Mass out of doors ... 24 

Chapter VII — A Little Indignation . . 26 

Chapter VIII — We Break Camp ... 28 

Chapter IX — The Panel of Silk ... 32 

Chapter X — Movement Orders ... 33 

Chapter XI — The High Seas ... 35 

Chapter XII — By Ireland .... 37 

Chapter XIII — England .... 38 

Chapter XIV — In Camp .... 39 

Chapter XV — The Cenacle . . . . 41 

Chapter XVI — The Battalion is Broken Up 44 
Chapter XVII — The Little Spaniard . . 46 

Chapter XVIII — The Garrison Church Hut 48 

Chapter XIX — The New Sacrifice . . 50 

Chapter XX — Through English Lanes . 54 

Chapter XXI — At Parkminster ... 56 

Chapter XXII — Orders for France . . 60 

Chapter XXIII — At No. 2 Canadian In¬ 
fantry Base Depot . 62 

Chapter XXIV — The New Zealanders . 65 

Chapter XXV — The Workers ... 67 



8 


CONTENTS 


Chapter XXVI — Orders Again ... 69 

Chapter XXVII — Hospitals and Trains . 70 

Chapter XXVIII —D Fs and S Fs . . 75 

Chapter XXIX—Down The Hospital Aisle 77 
Chapter XXX — The Two Brothers . . 80 

Chapter XXXI — An Unexpected Turning . 82 

Chapter XXXII — Private Belair ... 86 

Chapter XXXIII — A Little Nonsense . 89 

Chapter XXXIV — Transfusion ... 93 

Chapter XXXV — The Ministering Angels . 95 

Chapter XXXVI — More Orders ... 97 

Chapter XXXVII — Held for Orders . . 100 

Chapter XXXVIII — The Front at Last . 103 

Chapter XXXIX — A Strafe and a Quartet 106 

Chapter XL — The Valley of the Dead . 110 

Chapter XLI — New Friends . . . . 115 

Chapter XLII — A Little Burlap Room . 118 

Chapter XLIII — Christmas at the Front . 120 

Chapter XLIV — Back to Rest . . . 123 

Chapter XLV — Bruay.129 

Chapter XLVI — Fosse-Dix .... 132 

Chapter XLVII — The Little Cure of Fosse- 

Dix .... 136 

Chapter XLVIII — Into the Line . . 139 

Chapter XLIX — Called Up . . . . 142 

Chapter L — Bully Les Mines . . . 144 

Chapter LI — The One That Was Lost . 146 

Chapter LII — A Vague Unrest . . . 151 

Chapter LIII — The Great Offensive . . 153 

Chapter LIV — Agnez-lez-Duisans . . 158 




CONTENTS 


9 


Chapter LY — The Refugees . . . . 162 

Chapter LVI — Arras. 164 

Chapter LVII — Easter Sunday . . . 166 

Chapter LVIII — The Ronville Caves . . 168 

Chapter LIX — The Banquet Hall . . 171 

Chapter LX — The Sheehans . . . 178 

Chapter LXI — Ecoivres .... 181 

Chapter LXII — Ecurie Wood . . . 188 

Chapter LXIII — The Different Dispensers 192 
Chapter LXIV — Incapacitated . . . 195 

Chapter LXV — Anzin and Monchy Breton 197 
Chapter LXVI — A New Sheep . . . 200 

Chapter LXVII — Notre Dame D ’Ardennes . 203 

Chapter LXVIII — The Procession . . 207 

Chapter LXIX — On Leave .... 211 

Chapter LXX — St. Michael’s Club . . 212 

Chapter LXXI — Parkminster Again . . 215 

Chapter LXXII — Another Surprise . . 217 

Chapter LXXIII — Back to the Battalion 219 
Chapter LXXIV — No Man’s Land Again . 222 
Chapter LXXV — No Man’s Land . . . 227 

Chapter LXXVI — Cambligneul . . . 229 

Chapter LXXVII — A New Front . . 232 

Chapter LXXVIII — Boves .... 237 
Chapter LXXIX — The Battle of Amiens . 249 

Chapter LXXX — At the Wayside . . 244 

Chapter LXXXI — In an Apple Orchard . 246 

Chapter LXXXII — A Strange Interruption 249 
Chapter LXXXIII — Boves Again . . 252 

Chapter LXXXIV — The Battle of Arras . 258 




10 


CONTENTS 


Chapter LXXXV — Berneville Again . . 263 

Chapter LXXXVI — Letters of Sympathy . 266 

Chapter LXXXVII — A Little Bit of Sham¬ 
rock .... 269 

Chapter LXXXVIII — Left Behind . . 277 

Chapter LXXXIX — With the Fourteenth 280 

Chapter XC — Telegraph Hill . . . 282 

Chapter XCI — Canal du Nord . . . 283 

Chapter XCII — The Most Terrible Day . 287 

Chapter XCIII — In Reserve . . . 293 

Chapter XCIV — Frequent Moves . . 295 

Chapter XCV — Somaine .... 297 

Chapter XCVI — The End Draws Near . 300 

Chapter XCVII — November Eleventh . 303 

Chapter XCVIII — Through Belgium . . 305 

Chapter XCIX — Through the Rhineland . 309 

Chapter C — L’Envoi. 312 




THE RED VINEYARD 

Chapter I 

A Little Speculation 

“I’ll give you just three nights in the front line 
trench before your hair will turn grey,” said a brown 
haired priest, looking at me with a slightly aggressive 
air. 

I remained quiet. 

“You 11 not be very long in the army till you 11 wish 
yourself out of it again,” was the not very encourag¬ 
ing assertion of a tall, thin priest who suffered inter¬ 
mittently from dyspeptic troubles. 

Still I did not speak. 

Another priest, whose work was oftener among old 
tomes than among men, said slowly and, as was his 
wont, somewhat seriously, that it surprised him very 
much to note my eagerness to go to war. He did not 
consider it in keeping with the dignity of the priest 
to be so belligerently inclined. Did I not recall that 
I was an ambassador of the meek and lowly Christ — 
the Prince of Peace? 

Had I obeyed the first impulse, I think my reply 
would have been colored with a little asperity; but as 
I was weighing my words, a gentle white-haired old 
priest, stout and with red cheeks, said to me as he 


12 


THE RED VINEYARD 


smiled kindly; “All, Father, you are to be envied. 
Think of all the good you will be able to do for our 
poor boys! Think of the souls you will usher up to 
the gates of heaven!” 

He shook his head slowly from side to side two or 
three times, and the smile on his kind old face gave 
place to a look of longing as he continued, somewhat 
regretfully: “Ah, if I were a younger man I’d be with 
you, Father. All we older men can do now is to pray, 
and you may rest assured I shall remember you often 
— you and your men. ’ ’ 

I looked at the old priest gratefully. “Thank you, 
Father,” I said, and I thought of Moses of old, with 
arms outstretched. 

None of the other priests spoke for a while, and I 
gazed into the fire of dry hardwood that murmured 
and purred so comfortably in the large open fire-place, 
built of small field stones. I was thinking earnestly 
and when the conversation was again resumed I took 
no part in it. In fact, I did not follow it at all, for 
I was wondering, among other things, if my hair would 
really turn grey after a few nights in the front line 
trenches. However, I did not worry; for I concluded 
it would be wiser to wait until I should arrive at the 
trenches, where I might have the evidence of my senses. 

I gave but a passing thought to the words of the 
good priest who was a little dyspeptic. He had never 
been in the Army, and where was his reason for assum¬ 
ing that I should not like the life? Of course, I did 
not mind what the old priest, whose work was so often 
among old books, had said about my being an am- 




THE RED VINEYARD 


13 


bassador of the Prince of Peace. I felt that this priest 
had got his ideas a little mixed. Not very long before 
I had heard him vent his outraged feelings when the 
French government had called the priests of France 
to fight for the Colors. He had been horrified. So I 
surmised that he imagined I had voluntarily offered 
my services as a combatant. I had not. 

The conversation continued, but I heeded it not. I 
was busy meditating on the words of the saintly old 
priest with the red cheeks. How well he understood, 
I thought. And the flames of the fire shot in and out 
among the wood, purring pleasantly the while. 


Chapter II 

The Bishop Writes 

Up to this time I did not have the Bishop’s consent. 
In fact, I cannot remember having mentioned in his 
presence my desire to go to the front with the soldiers 
as chaplain; but I had talked it over frequently with 
priests, and it never occurred to me that the Bishop 
had not heard of my wish, nor that he would not be 
in accord with it. But one morning I received a letter 
from the Bishop telling me plainly and firmly that he 
wished me to keep quiet, and not to talk so much about 
going to the front until I should know whether or not 
I would be permitted to go. He mentioned a recruiting 
meeting of a few nights previous, at which I had of- 




14 


THE RED VINEYARD 


fered my services as chaplain to the battalion that was 
then being recruited in the diocese. 

Perhaps I had been a little too outspoken at the 
meeting, but I had considered myself quite justified in 
breaking silence, since it had already come to pass 
that three ministers of different Protestant denomina¬ 
tions had offered themselves as chaplains to the battal¬ 
ion which, though still in rather an embryonic state, 
gave promise of being complete in a few months. I 
foresaw that it would be more than half Catholic, as 
the population of the district from which it was being 
recruited was three-fourths Catholic. So I offered my¬ 
self generously, not wishing to be outdone by the min¬ 
isters, and then had sat down feeling that I had done 
well. 

The following morning, however, I was not quite 
so sure, for when I read my words printed in the daily 
paper I felt just a little perturbed. What would the 
Bishop think? I wondered. I had not long to wait 
before I knew exactly what His Lordship thought. 
His letter told me quite plainly. 

I kept quiet. Keeping quiet, however, did not pre¬ 
vent me from following with interest the activities of 
others. Almost every evening recruiting meetings were 
held in different places throughout the diocese, at 
which old men spoke and orchestras played, and some¬ 
times a young boy would step dance. But, most im¬ 
portant of all, many young men enlisted. They came 
in great numbers, the Catholics far in the majority. 
Then, one morning early in the spring, the paper an¬ 
nounced that the battalion had been recruited to full 



THE RED VINEYARD 


15 


strength. The different companies would stay in the 
town till the following June, when the battalion would 
go into camp to train as a unit. 

That evening a letter came from the officer in com¬ 
mand, saying that as eighty per cent of his men were 
Catholics he had decided to take a Roman Catholic 
chaplain, and that he intended going to see the Bishop 
that evening. 

A few days later another letter came from the Bishop 
saying that he had been asked for a Catholic chaplain, 
and as he remembered that I had seemed very eager 
to go with the men, he was glad to say that he was 
giving me permission to go. He had decided this, he 
added, on the Feast of the Seven Dolors of Our Lady. 

“The Seven Dolors,” I said to myself quietly, two 
or three times. Then I fell to wishing that the Bishop 
had made his decision on some other feast of Our Lady. 
I remember now, as I stood in the quiet little room 
with the letter in my hand, recalling the words of the 
priest — that he would not give me three nights in 
the front line trenches before my hair would turn 
grey. But this thought did not bother me very long, 
for I began to think of something else, and as I did 
the letter trembled a little with the hand that held it. 
“Perhaps I am not coming back,” I said to myself. 
Then I repeated: “The Feast of the Seven Dolors! 
The Feast of the Seven Dolors!” 



16 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter III 

A Little Adjusting 

During the next seven or eight days from all sides 
I heard one question asked by young and old: “When 
are you going to put on the uniform, Father?” Little 
children to whom I had taught catechism rushed around 
corners or panted up narrow streets of the little town 
where I was stationed and smilingly asked me. Their 
fathers and mothers, after saying good-morning, re¬ 
marked pleasantly, as an afterthought: “I suppose 
well soon be seeing you in the khaki, Father?’’ They 
seemed to anticipate real pleasure in seeing me decked 
in full regimentals. But the more I had evidence of 
this seemingly pleasant anticipation, the less inclined 
I felt to appear publicly in my chaplain’s uniform. 
When the time came for a last fitting at the tailor’s, 
I found other duties to claim my attention, until a 
polite little note from the proprietor of the establish¬ 
ment informed me that my presence was requested for 
a last fitting of my uniform. 

Then one morning, when the spring birds that had 
returned were singing merrily among the trees with 
not the slightest thought as to their raiment, and when 
bursting buds were making the trees beautiful in their 
eagerness to drape them with bright green robes, I 
appeared on the public streets of the quiet little town 
clad in full regimentals. 

I had chosen an early hour for my public appearance, 
thinking that my ordeal would not be so trying. 

Since that morning I have had many exciting ex- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


17 


periences, up and down the ways of war; I have wit¬ 
nessed many impressive scenes, beautiful, terrible, and 
horrible, but these events have by no means obliterated 
from the tablets of my memory the events of that 
morning. Nothing particular happened until I had 
descended the hill and turned the first corner to the 
right in the direction of the town post-office. A horse 
was coming at a leisurely gait down the quiet street, 
driven by a young fellow of about sixteen, who sat on 
the seat of a high express wagon with a friend. Both 
lads seemed to see me at once, and started perceptibly. 
In his excitement, the driver pulled on the lines and 
the startled horse jerked his head quickly, as if he, too, 
was struck by my unwonted appearance. On the oppo¬ 
site side of the road a barber, who was operating on 
an early customer, stopped suddenly and came to the 
window, the razor still in his hand, while his patient, 
almost enveloped in the great white apron that was 
tucked about his neck, sat up quickly in the chair and 
turned a face half-covered with thick, creamy lather 
towards the window. All along the way people stop¬ 
ped, looked, smiled pleasantly, and then passed on. 
I had almost entered the post-office when the rattling 
of an express wagon, that must have passed the winter 
uncovered, as every spoke in the wheels seemed loose, 
came noisily to my ears. The horse was reined up 
opposite me, and as I turned my head side-wise I was 
greeted by the two young fellows who had passed me 
but a few minutes before, only this time three other 
lads, with smiling faces, were standing behind them 
in the wagon, holding to the seat. 

After I got my mail from the box, I decided not 





18 


THE RED VINEYARD 


to return by the same route along which I had come. 
There was a more secluded way. It was with a feel¬ 
ing of great relief that I found no one coming in my 
direction. I took out my new khaki handkerchief, un¬ 
folded it and wiped my brow. But, alas, for my relief! 
I had not gone very far till I crossed a street running 
at right angles to my course. A number of school 
children were coming along this. I quickened my pace. 
They saw me, and immediately a great bubbling of ex¬ 
cited talk was borne to my ears. Then, as I disappeared 
from their view, I heard the sound of many eager feet 
pattering up the sidewalk. It ceased suddenly and I 
knew that again they were regarding me intently. 
There was a complete silence for a second or two, then 
I heard quite clearly the voice of a little girl, who in 
the last year’s confirmation class had given me more 
trouble than any other of the candidates, call almost 
louder than was necessary for her companions to hear: 
“Oh! doesn’t he look lovely?” A man just coming 
from his house on his way to his office smiled pleasantly 
and interestedly as he heard the small voice. Then he 
raised his hat. I saluted. 

As I walked up under the trees clothed in their 
beautiful spring garments, and listened to the birds 
that sang so blithely this bright cool spring morning, 
with never a thought as to their raiment, I wiped my 
brow again. “These military clothes are warm,” I 
said to myself — yet I knew that this was not the 


reason. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


19 


Chapter IV 

The Portable Altar 

After a few days a box about one foot and a half 
long, one foot high and nine inches wide, arrived. It 
was made of wood covered with a kind of grey cloth, 
with strips of black leather about the edges and small 
pieces of brass at every corner. There were leather 
grips on it so that it could be carried as a satchel. 
It was my little portable altar, containing everything 
necessary for saying Mass. One half opened and stood 
upright from the part containing the table of the altar, 
which when opened out was three feet long. Fitted 
into the oak table was the little marble altar-stone, 
without which one may not say Mass. In the top of 
the upright part was a square hole in which the cruci¬ 
fix fitted to stand above the altar; on either side were 
holders to attach the candlesticks. From the wall that 
formed a compartment in the upright portion, where 
the vestments were kept, the altar cards unfolded; 
these were kept in place by small brass clips attached 
to the upright. Chalice, ciborium, missal and stand, 
cruets, wine, altar-breads, bell, linens, etc., were in 
compartments beneath the altar table. The whole was 
wonderfully compact and could be carried with one 
hand. 

As I write these words it stands nearby, sadly war¬ 
worn after its voyage across the ocean, and its travels 
through England, France, Belgium and the Rhineland 
of Germany. I have said Mass on it on this side of 




20 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the ocean; on the high seas; in camp in England; in 
trenches; on battlefields; in tents, camps, and billets 
through the war-scarred areas of France. I offered 
the Holy Sacrifice on it placed on a low, wide window¬ 
sill in a German billet on our way through the Rhine¬ 
land. It was carried across the Rhine December 13th, 
1918, in the great triumphal march. Now it is home 
again. In, many places the cloth covering is scraped 
and torn; one of the brass corners is missing. It is 
very soiled from the mud of France and rifle oil stains, 
etc.; the leather edging is chipped and peeled. The 
table has been broken and repaired again, so has the 
little book-stand. The silver chalice and paten are 
slightly dented in many places. The little bell has lost 
part of its handle, but its tone is still sweet. One alb 
has been burned, but I have another. The cincture has 
been broken and knotted. 

I gaze at it now and think of the thousands of great¬ 
hearted lads who knelt before it, often on rain-soaked 
fields, or stood among piles of ruins and heard the 
sweet notes of the little bell warning them of the 
Master’s approach, so that they might bow reverently 
when He came; of the thousands on field, on hillside, 
in caves and huts who knelt to eat of the Bread of Life, 
many of them going almost immediately with this 
pledge of eternal life, before God to be judged, — as I 
think of all this, there comes into my eyes a mist, and 
the little portable altar grows dim. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


21 


Chapter Y 

In Training Camp 

In a few weeks we left for training camp, travelling 
all night and arriving at our destination early in the 
morning. We detrained and the whole battalion fell 
in, the band marching at the head of the column. Our 
camp was in a wide green valley, as level as a floor, 
flecked with hundreds of white bell tents; and in the 
distance on every side sloped gently upwards high 
solemn mountains that kept silent guard over the 
plain below. Through the whole length of the valley 
ran a long grey asphalt road, over which passed all 
the traffic of the camp. 

All summer long battalions of new soldiers came 
up this road and took over lines that had been assigned 
them. All summer long, and well on into the autumn, 
battalions of trained soldiers marched down the road 
to entrain for the port of embarkation for overseas. 

We marched up the smooth road, the band playing 
the regimental march, passed line after line of the 
different battalions quartered on either side. Soldiers 
from different units lined the way and voiced friendly 
criticism as to our appearance, etc. Many wagons 
from the farm lands beyond the hills were drawn up 
on each side of the road; grouped about them were 
many khaki-clad lads buying milk, little pats of butter, 
buns and a number of other articles. We marched 
about two miles till we came to a great square of un¬ 
occupied bell tents. Here we halted and took over our 
lines. 





22 


THE RED VINEYARD 


In a few days we were in the ordinary routine of 
camp life, and I think most of the men liked the new 
order. Living in a tent seemed to give one a continual 
feeling of freshness and buoyancy. Every morning, 
very early, far away at general headquarters, a flag 
would run up the tall flag-pole; then from all parts 
of the camp would sound the reveille, breaking in on 
the peaceful repose of honest sleepers, and when the 
last sound of the bugles had died away there would be 
heard a quick rattle of snare-drums and a few great 
booms from the bass drum, then the exhilarating strains 
of a military march would break on the morning air. 
I had listened to the pleasant martial strains for per¬ 
haps a week or two, and naturally associated with 
them the idea of orderly marching bandsmen, fully 
equipped, polished and shining from head to foot, till 
one morning I untied the flap of my tent and looked 
out. More than half the bandsmen were in their shirt 
sleeves; five or six were in their bare feet, and now 
and again they jumped spasmodically, as they walked 
on a pebble or struck a hidden tent-peg; some who 
wore boots did not wear socks or puttees, and the 
trousers from the knee down were tight and much 
wrinkled, yet there was no lack of harmony in the 
stately, marching music. 

All day long till four o’clock the men drilled or 
took different exercises, while the sun slowly shifted 
scenery on the great silent hills. Up and down the 
long grey road huge-hooded khaki motor lorries 
rumbled with their loads of supplies for field and tent. 
In the evening towards sunset, after the men had 





23 


THE RED VINEYARD 


washed and rested a little, the flag that had been flying 
at headquarters all through the day would drop slowly 
down the pole. Then two buglers would sound re¬ 
treat, after which the guard would be inspected while 
the band played some slow waltz or minuet. 

To me this seemed the happiest hour of the daily 
military routine. The day was done and from all parts 
of the camp could be heard low, pleasant talk, as the 
band played soft music, the men standing about in 
little groups or moving from tent to tent, visiting 
neighbors. It always brought to my mind the idea of 
restfulness and peace. 

After retreat the long grey road would become alive 
with the continuous movement of soldiers going and 
coming. The officers did not care to walk along this 
road, as it meant for them one continual return of 
salutes. Sometimes an open-air moving picture show 
would be in progress. There were also two halls where 
moving pictures were shown on rainy nights. In the 
early days it was a treat to the lads to visit these places. 
As there were never any ladies present, smoking was 
permitted. Sometimes the smoke rose in such density 
that it obscured the pictures on the screen. 

At ten o ’clock last post would sound and weary men 
would roll themselves in their blankets on the hard 
ground and dispose themselves to sleep. 





24 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter VI 

Mass Out of Doors 

On Sundays I would set up the portable altar on two 
rifle boxes placed one above the other, on a great green 
plain near the end of the camp. Nearly always an 
awning would be erected above the altar, and when¬ 
ever the wind blew canvas was draped about posts as 
a wind-shield, so that the candles might not be extin¬ 
guished. 

It was a wonderful sight to see the men draw up 
on the grass, every one of them reverent and quiet 
before the little altar as I vested for Mass. Often 
three thousand were drawn up on the green plain as 
level as a floor. Sometimes a number would wait till 
this late Mass — which was always said at ten o’clock 
— to go to Holy Communion, though I always said an 
early Mass for those who wished to receive. 

Since the war, different men who were present at 
those open-air Masses have told me that never before 
had they assisted at the Holy Sacrifice with such de¬ 
votion. All things seemed to praise God; the great 
solemn mountains stood silent, the clouds moved sound¬ 
lessly across the blue of the sky. Not a sound could 
be heard, save when a man coughed softly, or when 
the little bell tinkled. 

On account of what happened, I recall one of those 
Sunday mornings in particular. I had noticed, stand¬ 
ing among the officers of one of the battalions drawn 
up in the church parade, an elderly man wearing ordi- 




THE RED VINEYARD 


25 


nary blue civilian trousers and a military khaki shirt 
and helmet. He wore a leather belt but no coat. I 
no sooner saw him than I said to myself: ‘ ‘ An old 
soldier!’’ And as I vested for the Holy Sacrifice the 
question came flashing across my mind again and 
again: Who can he be? What war was he in? When 
I turned after the Communion to address the men, 
there he was standing, well in front with the officers. 
He listened very attentively to my sermon, which was 
on the text, “Son, give me thy heart.” Towards the 
end I said a few words about Our Lady, because it 
was the Sunday within the octave of the Assumption. 
I told the lads to run to their Mother in all their 
trials; to be Knights of Our Lady, to think of her 
especially during their long hours of sentry duty at 
night, and never to let a day go by without saying her 
beads. 

Then, after I had given my blessing and had turned 
to unvest before my little portable altar, my “old 
soldier” came forward and introduced himself. He 
was a judge from my home province, and he would 
be glad if I would permit him to say a few words to 
the men. I was very pleased that he should do so. 
A word was said to the officers in charge and the men 
were called to attention. 

The judge stood up on the rifle box that I had just 
vacated, and there in God’s beautiful out of doors, 
with the great green mountains looking up to their 
Creator in silent humility, this old Catholic gentle¬ 
man spoke to the lads in a wonderfully clear voice of 
their Mother and his Mother. It was very edifying 



26 


THE RED VINEYARD 


to hear this educated Catholic layman speak so. He 
concluded with a few words about the Mass. “I 
have assisted at Mass/’ he said, “in many large cathe¬ 
drals in different countries; but, I think, never with 
such devotion as I have this morning here in the open 
air before your little altar placed on the rifle boxes, 
and God’s beautiful sky and sunlight above us. After 
all, gentlemen, it is the Mass that counts; the chang¬ 
ing of the bread and wine into the Body and Blood 
of Christ. God could do it and God did do it.” When 
the old man finished I could not but say gratefully: 
“God bless you, judge,” for I felt that his words 
would do very much good. 


Chapter YII 

A Little Indignation 

The time passed quickly for me, though I think for 
most of the men it went slowly; they seemed always 
restless, always longing to get to the front. They used 
to come to me often with their little grievances. They 
seemed to think that their troubles would disappear 
once they reached training camp overseas. 

I remember one Sunday, after I had finished Mass 
and the last company had marched off the field, two 
soldiers came forward from somewhere and saluted. 
One of them, the taller of the two, acted as chief 
spokesman. “Father,” he said, “we have not heard 



THE RED VINEYARD 


27 


Mass today. We were ordered to go to the Protestant 
service. 7 ’ Excitement flashed in his eyes. “The serv¬ 
ice is just over, Father, and we slipped over here to 
tell you.” 

It was strictly against K. B. & 0. to order Catholics 
to a non-Catliolic service. The lads did not belong to 
my battalion, but to a construction battalion that had 
but lately come to camp. Headquarters of this bat¬ 
talion were not far away, so I did not wait for my 
breakfast, but obeyed the first impulse and went im¬ 
mediately to the training square of the No. — Con¬ 
struction Co. The church parade was over and the 
chaplain had just finished packing his books and was 
preparing to leave the field with the adjutant. I 
asked the chaplain if the Catholics had been ordered 
to attend the service. “Yes,” he said, and then went 
on to explain that it was a universal church service 
and that all the men had been ordered to attend. 

I asked him to look up a book entitled K. R. & 0. 
I told him that it was a serious offense that had been 
committed; that my men had a right to attend their 
own service; that there was no such thing known in 
the army as a universal church parade. 

When they saw they had made a mistake both chap¬ 
lain and adjutant were very apologetic. Shortly after 
this, when the battalion was to leave for overseas, the 
chaplain wrote me a note asking me to hear the con¬ 
fessions of the Catholics. I think they came to a man; 
two other chaplains came to help me. This construc¬ 
tion battalion was composed mostly of men who had 
moved quite a lot over different parts of the world, 




28 


THE RED VINEYARD 


and had grown a little slack in the observance of their 
religious duties. Big things were done for Our Lord 
that night. Perhaps many would have passed the 
summer without even coming to Mass had not this 
great indignity been offered them. 

So the days passed quickly, and then one evening 
word came that we were to leave — but only for an¬ 
other camp. There was great rejoicing at first, for 
the lads thought that orders for “Overseas'' had come. 


Chapter VIII 

We Break Camp 

It was Sunday, October 1st. It was the most beauti¬ 
ful day I have ever seen. There had been a heavy frost 
during the night, and in the morning the hills, which 
had been green all summer, but had lately begun to 
put on their autumn tints, were glorious in bright 
scarlet, yellow and russet, with still here and there 
a dark green patch of spruce. The white frost was 
on the ground and a covering of ice one-eighth of an 
inch thick was formed on the basin of water in my 
tent. The air was cold, clear and invigorating. The 
men were all in excellent spirits. I said Mass for my 
own men, and then walked about two miles towards 
the entrance to the camp to say Mass for the other 
soldiers who still remained in the different areas. The 
Sabbath day stillness seemed more intense than ever. 



29 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Perhaps it was on account of the very small number 
left in the camp. When I turned around after I had 
said Mass, I could not but pause in admiration of the 
wonderful beauty of God’s works. I took for the 
text of my sermon: “ 0 Lord, Our Lord, how admirable 
is Thy name in the whole world.” I told the lads 
that as Our Lord had made all things beautiful we 
ought to keep our souls beautiful in His sight, and 
that one of the surest means of doing so was to come 
to Holy Communion. Then I preached on the Blessed 
Eucharist. 

When I reached our own lines after Mass nearly 
all the tents had been taken down and rolled up. I 
had breakfast at one of the men’s cook stoves. We 
were to break camp at twelve o’clock. I think I was 
the only one who was sorry to leave. 

Things had gone very well during the summer; 
there had been many consolations in the ministry. 
Many men who had passed long years away from the 
sacraments had come into the white bell tent pitched 
in the open space in the valley and, kneeling there, 
had been reconciled after many years’ estrangement 
from God. I had watched the men in the evening and 
had noticed how cheerful they were, how much like 
boys they were in the tricks they played on each other. 

One evening, shortly before we were to leave, a great 
bonfire had been lighted. All through the day the 
men had worked at the base of the slopes cutting down 
dry trees and carrying them out. The fire was built 
in the square where the men drilled and took their 
physical exercises in the mornings. It was a thrilling 




30 


THE RED VINEYARD 


sight to watch the little tongues of fire darting in 
and out among the pile of dry twigs, increasing in 
size and speed till they developed into one great waving 
pillar of flame that tore its way upward through the 
gigantic pile of dry old trees, hissing, crackling and 
roaring as it went. The flames must have reached 
forty feet in height, and at times the sparks swarmed 
down on the tents like bees to a hive, and the soldiers 
had to beat them out. The band marched around the 
flaming pillar and played, keeping always within the 
circle of light made by the fire. Many soldiers fol¬ 
lowed in procession, some of them performing comical 
acrobatic feats as they went. There was an almost 
new tent floor up near the colonel’s tent which some 
of the lads thought would make excellent fuel for 
the fire. Presently about eight of them were carry¬ 
ing it towards the flames. The quartermaster, who 
had charge of the movables of the camp, saw them 
approaching and immediately advanced from his place 
near the fire, angrily shouting orders to them to put 
down the tent floor. They did, though not till the 
indignant quartermaster was very near them. Then 
they turned and ran quickly away. The quartermaster, 
who was a heavy man, did not pursue them. He turned 
towards the fire, but only to find that a number of 
rough tables and chairs had gone to satisfy the hungry 
flames! He was very angry. The lads had become like 
little children, and I think their souls had become like 
the souls of little children. 

And now we were going back to civilization! Our 
journey was one of about four hundred miles through 




THE RED VINEYARD 


31 


many small towns and cities to a camp near the sea¬ 
board, where we were to wait a few weeks before em¬ 
barking. We left Valcartier at the time appointed, 
and all that day and most of the evening our route 
lay along the noble St. Lawrence. In the morning 
we came into our own Province of New Brunswick, 
from the northern part of which our battalion had been 
recruited. 

In many towns at which we stopped liquor was pro¬ 
cured, and soon there were evidences that many of 
the men had taken too much. And when we drew near 
the town from the environs of which the majority of 
the lads had been recruited a great number gave signs 
of almost complete intoxication, so that parents who 
stood among the great crowd which had gathered to 
see the lads as they passed through were greatly hu¬ 
miliated. I felt sick at heart, for a public holiday had 
been proclaimed and people had come from the whole 
surrounding countryside to see the battalion for the 
last time before going overseas. It was a gala-day. 
They had waited all morning, and then many of the 
men who arrived were in every stage of intoxication! 
It was very humiliating to the poor parents and the 
men had been so good all summer! 

"When the train pulled out, I went back to my seat 
in the Pullman. Two thoughts were working in my 
mind, so that my head felt a little dazed and I did not 
hear the officers talking around me. Neither did I 
perceive when they spoke to me. One thought was a 
very human one. I felt terribly disheartened, and I 
wondered if the people thought that the men had been 



32 


THE RED VINEYARD 


drinking so during the summer, and I fell to wishing 
that they could only know all about the men in camp. 
The other thought was that I was grateful to God for 
having chosen me to minister to them. For surely they 
needed a priest! 


Chapter IX 

The Panel of Silk 

The following Sunday, when all my Catholic soldiers 
were assembled at Mass in the church of the town 
where we were encamped, I spoke of what had trans¬ 
pired during our journey from Valcartier. During 
the week I had thought out a plan, and I had bought 
a few packages of blank visiting cards and a number 
of lead pencils. I had cut the pencils in two and had 
put a part in every pew, also a blank card for every 
person that would sit in the pew. In the course of 
my little talk I spoke of how fine a thing it would be 
if they could take the pledge, given in such a way, 
however, that they might be free to take the rum 
served in the trenches, which, under those circum¬ 
stances, could be considered medicine. Those who 
would take the pledge would write their names on 
the blank cards; the cards would be gathered up after 
Mass; the names would be typewritten on a panel of 
silk; the silk, bearing the names, would be used as a 
lining for my little portable altar, and whenever Mass 




THE RED VINEYARD 


33 


would be said, a special remembrance would be made 
for the lads who had taken the pledge. 

When we gathered up the cards after Mass they 
numbered almost two hundred. They were typed on 
the panel of silk, and the panel of silk, with the names, 
still rests in the little altar. All through the war they 
have been remembered. Many of those names appear 
elsewhere on small white crosses “where poppies 
grow,” so that now they are no longer mentioned in 
the memento of the living; but there is another part of 
the Mass when they are remembered — with “those 
who have gone before us, signed with the sign of faith, 
and who rest in the sleep of peace.” 


Chapter X 

Movement Orders 

We did not stay very long in our new camping 
ground. For a few days the men seemed quite con¬ 
tent. Everything was new to them; but soon they be¬ 
gan to wonder how long it would be before we would 
leave. The nights often were very cold in the tents, 
for it was now late in October. We began to feel sure 
that orders for departing must come soon as no pre¬ 
parations were being made for going into winter quar¬ 
ters. On Sunday I had announced confessions for the 
following Wednesday. On the day set, four priests 
came to help me, but just as the men were being formed 



34 


THE RED VINEYARD 


up to go to the church, word came that we were to 
leave that evening for overseas. The men were dis¬ 
missed and soon there was a scene of general disorder; 
but on all sides were happy faces. All seemed glad 
to go. They had been looking forward to it for so 
long a time. 

I was obliged to tell the priests who had come so 
far that there would be no confessions. I kept the 
hosts that the Sisters in a nearby town had made for 
me, as I hoped to hear the men’s confessions on the 
boat on the way across the ocean. 

All night long we stood around, waiting for the 
train to come to take us, but there had been some de¬ 
lay, and so it was not till early in the morning that 
we left. Our journey was not a very long one, but we 
were obliged to wait at many different stations till 
trains passed us. As the movement order had called 
for a night trip, no dining-car or buffet had been at¬ 
tached. The men went hungry all day. The last trip 
had been one of over-indulgence. This was one of 
abstinence. 

We had no breakfast and no dinner, yet the men 
seemed quite content, and joked pleasantly over the 
fact that they were hungry. At one country station 
where we were side-tracked the bugler jumped out on 
the platform and blew the call: “Come to the cook¬ 
house door, boys!” But as there was no cook-house 
door to go to, and no “Mulligan battery” — the name 
given to the field-kitchen, with its steaming odors of 
Irish stew — they greeted the call of the smiling bu¬ 
gler with derisive laughter. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


35 


At four o ’clock we were all aboard the 8. S. Corsican , 
and at five we pulled out from the dock, the band on 
the upper deck playing “Auld Lang Syne.” Many 
relatives of the lads, who had arrived in the little sea¬ 
port town, waved their good-byes from the dock as 
the boat swung clear from its moorings and steamed 
slowly down the bay. The boys swarmed up the rope 
ladders and cheered; many little tugs far down on 
the water darted about, shrieking shrilly their fare¬ 
wells. We were off to the war! 


Chapter XI 

The High Seas 

The doctor and I had been alloted a state-room to¬ 
gether, but I was subsequently given one down below, 
where I said Mass the first morning and heard con¬ 
fessions every evening. The chief steward was a 
Catholic and he was very kind. I had permission to 
say Mass in the second-class saloon, which was the 
largest on the boat, and nearly all the men came to 
Holy Communion. Our first Sunday out I said Mass 
for the lads below. As I proceeded with the Mass the 
seas became very rough, so that the book fell off the 
altar three times; the chalice, however, never moved. 
Many became sick, and the Red Cross section was 
busy. On the first day out we donned our cumbersome 
life-belts, which we wore all the way across the At- 



36 


THE RED VINEYARD 


lantic. I took mine oft only while saying Mass. They 
hung on the berths at night. During the day the men 
walked up and down the upper deck; sometimes there 
were drills, etc. We saw no vessels. Every day we 
plunged forward through rough seas, and in the after¬ 
noons, as I sat in my little stateroom hearing confes¬ 
sions, I could hear the dull pounding of the waves on 
the sides of the vessel. 

I was very pleased with the example the Catholic 
officers gave the men. Every one of them came to 
confession and Communion on the way over. One, the 
old quartermaster, who was confined to his cabin with 
a severe attack of la grippe, could not come to Mass 
with the others, so I gave him Communion in his cabin 
towards the last of the voyage. The second morning 
afterwards, however, as I walked back and forth mak¬ 
ing my thanksgiving, I stopped quickly and peered 
out over the sea. I could see very faintly, across the 
water, a long, serried line of hills that looked greyish- 
blue in the early morning — the hills of Ireland ! I 
ran quickly to tell the quartermaster, who had been 
born in Ireland and had still a true Irishman’s great 
love for his native land. He was not there. I was 
surprised, as the doctor had told me that he had given 
orders that he was not to leave his cabin till after we 
reached port. As I went out on deck again I noticed, 
up forward, leaning over the gunwale and looking to¬ 
wards Ireland, a great muffled figure. He wore one 
khaki great coat, and another, thrown loosely about 
his shoulders, gave him a hunched appearance. It was 
the quartermaster! 





THE RED VINEYARD 


37 


I went forward quickly: ‘ ‘ Captain, ’ ’ I said, ‘ ‘ didn’t 
the doctor tell you not to leave your stateroom till we 
docked?” 

He didn’t say anything for a second or two, and I 
noticed a mist had come into his eyes. Then he pointed 
far across the grey waste of waters. “Ah, Father,” 
he said, “but there’s Ireland!” 


Chapter XII 

By Ireland 

All day long we sailed by Ireland and she seemed 
strangely peaceful and quiet. Perhaps it was the great 
contrast with the sea, the wide tumbling waste of 
waters that, night and day, was always restless; or 
perhaps it was a benediction resting over the whole 
country. Anyhow it seemed that way to me as often 
as my eyes rested on the hills and fields of holy Ire¬ 
land. Since that morning I have seen many different 
countries. I have come back to my own land over the 
same great distance of waters, and it was in the early 
morning that I saw it first, yet that strange spiritual 
peace that seemed to rest over Ireland was decidedly 
lacking. That early morning scene still comes back 
to me; and all through the day, whenever my eyes 
rested on the hills of Ireland, I felt that I was making 
a meditation and that I was being lifted in spirit far 
above the little things that bother one here below. 





38 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Down below us on the water, with the swiftness al¬ 
most of swallows, darted here and there the long grey 
anti-submarine boats. Seven or eight of them had 
come to meet us. Later on in the day appeared the 
mine sweepers, low short steam boats painted for the 
most part red, and carrying one yard sails. The sails 
were of dark brownish-red color. They worked in 
pairs. 


Chapter XIII 

England 

That evening we moved slowly up the Mersey and 
at nine o ’clock anchored out in the stream in full view 
of the city of Liverpool. We could not see it very well, 
for throughout the city the lights were dimmed and 
windows were darkened. 

All along the Irish coast the impression was one of 
peace and quiet, a spiritual something. But England 
seemed to give one the idea of a great machine, work- 
' ing slowly, steadily, untiringly. One was spiritual; 
the other material. That was my first impression of 
England as a nation, and that impression remained with 
me during my stay in the country. Every time I re¬ 
turned on leave from France I found it always the 
same. England, as a nation, seemed to be wonderfully 
organized, and that whole organization seemed to run 
smoothly, powerfully, and heavily. Each individual 
had his special work to do in that colossal workshop 





THE RED VINEYARD 


39 


called England. He knew how to do that, and he 
did it, quietly, methodically, and well. But, taken 
away from his own work, he seemed to lack resource 
— the resource and initiative of the men from the New 
World. 

We entrained early in the morning. For most of 
us it was our first experience with the compartment 
cars of the Old World — little compartments running 
the width of the car, a door opening from each side 
of the car, with two seats running from one side to the 
other, each holding from three to five people, who sat 
facing each other. 

We passed through many quaint towns and many 
large cities, and it was evening when we came into the 
quiet little station of Liphook. We were due there 
at two o’clock, but there had been many delays along 
the way. Sometimes the lads had pulled the rope and 
had stopped the train; and each time a stolid brakeman 
had opened the door of compartment after compart¬ 
ment, asking solemnly: “ ’oo pulled the reope?” Of 
course no one gave him the information he asked; 
whereupon he closed each door and went patiently on 
to the next compartment. 


Chapter XIV 

In Camp 

I have often remarked that English writers use the 
word “depression” much more frequently than do 



40 


THE RED VINEYARD 


writers on this side of the water, and I have often 
wondered what could be the reason for this. I had 
not passed one week in England before I knew. A few 
days in an English military camp will give one an idea 
of what depression is. 

The military camp to which we were sent was Bram- 
shott — a great collection of long, low, one-story huts, 
built row on row, with a door at each end, opening into 
muddy lanes that ran the whole length of the camp. 
It was raining mildly the evening we arrived and we 
marched in the darkness for three miles along soft 
muddy roads, and now and again we splashed through 
a puddle, though we tried to avoid them. 

There seems to be an especially slippery quality 
about the mud of England, — to say nothing of that 
of France — that makes it very difficult to retain one’s 
balance. My cane, which according to military regu¬ 
lations I always carried, for the first time now proved 
useful. Day after day as the soldiers of the camp 
drilled in the soft, muddy squares, their movements 
resembled sliding more than orderly marching. Some¬ 
times thick pads of the soft, yellow mud clung heavily 
to their feet; very often a gentle drizzle of rain fell, 
and nearly always the sky was dark grey and sombre, 
so that one wondered no longer why the word “ depres¬ 
sion’’ should be so frequently used in English litera¬ 
ture. 

But notwithstanding the mud and the dark skies, 
many of us grew to like England. There were many 
quaint, winding roads hedged in places with hawthorne 
bushes or spruce or boxwood. These led us into de- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


41 


lightful little country villages with their old free-stone 
churches, sometimes covered with ivy that often ran 
for a long distance up the old Norman tower. 


Chapter XV 

The Cenacle 

Not more than three miles from the camp was sit¬ 
uated the convent of the Sisters of the Cenacle, a beau¬ 
tiful three -story building of red brick and stucco hid¬ 
den away among great hemlock, spruce and cypress 
trees. It is a kind of rest house, where at certain sea¬ 
sons of the year retreats are given for ladies, who come 
from different parts of England and pass a week at 
the convent. 

All during the war there was an open invitation to 
the Catholic soldiers of Bramshott Camp to visit the 
convent on Sunday afternoon and assist at Benediction 
of the Most Blessed Sacrament. 

There were three or four different ways of going to 
Grayshott, near which the Convent of the Cenacle was 
situated. One of these was a foot-path which led first 
through a moor, covered in summer with purple heath¬ 
er, then through bracken, almost as high as an aver¬ 
age man, and bunches of green gorse bushes that blazed 
light yellow at certain seasons with flowers resembling 
in shape the sweet-peas. It was a quaint little path, 
passing on its way “Wagner’s Wells” a chain of what 




42 


THE RED VINEYARD 


we on this side of the Atlantic would call ponds, in 
a low, wooded valley. In summer these were very 
pretty when the full-leafed branches of the trees hung 
low over the Wells, and the water was almost wholly 
hidden by tiny white flowers that rested on the sur¬ 
face. All during the war, on Sunday afternoons, a 
long, irregular line of khaki-clad figures went leisurely 
along the foot-path to Grayshott, passed scenery 
strange though pleasing, mounted quaint rustic stiles 
till they came to the convent of the Sisters of the 
Cenacle. 

The first Sunday I visited the Convent there were 
so many soldiers present that the little chapel could 
not contain all. I learned afterwards that this had 
happened so frequently that, in order that all might 
be present at Benediction, the good Sisters had asked 
for and obtained a general permission to have the ser¬ 
vices on the lawn just in the rear of the chapel. 

Benediction was given by a little Belgian who was 
doing chaplain’s work among the Canadians at Brarn- 
sliott, while Father Knox, a recently converted Angli¬ 
can clergyman, led the soldiers in singing the hymns. 
Little red hymn-books, which the English government 
had supplied the Catholic soldiers, were passed around 
to each soldier. It was a beautiful sight there on that 
English lawn, as all knelt grouped together, officer and 
soldier, priest, sister, while the white Host was raised 
to bless us all. Then the lads sang strongly and clearly 
that beautiful hymn, “Hail, Queen of Heaven,” that 
was sung so often during the war under many different 
conditions. The Irishmen sang it as they advanced 





THE RED VINEYARD 


43 


to take a difficult position that the English had failed 
to take at Festubert. 

The Sisters dispensed hospitality; large teapots of 
tea and plates stacked high with thin slices of bread 
and butter, and baskets of thick slices of yellow cake 
with currants in it. Then in the evening the soldiers 
walked back to camp through winding foot-paths and 
over stiles. 

I am sure there are many men scattered over the 
country who will remember gratefully the Sisters of 
the Cenacle at Grayshott. It must have inconvenienced 
them greatly, yet Sunday after Sunday, all during the 
war, soldiers went to the convent, and always the 
Sisters treated them most hospitably. 

On Sundays, when the number of men present was 
not too large, Benediction was given in the Sisters’ 
chapel. It was a very pretty little chapel and on the 
altar, day and night, the Sacred Host was exposed for 
perpetual adoration; and always two Sisters knelt to 
adore. On the Gospel side of the altar stood a beauti¬ 
ful statue of the Blessed Virgin which was almost 
covered with the military badges worn by soldiers of 
the different battalions. In some way known to women 
the good Sisters had draped a mantle about the statue, 
and to this was pinned the badges of these modern 
knights. 

After Benediction the lads would all come to a large 
room where tea would be served. Often among the 
little khaki-clad groups a Sister of the Cenacle would 
be seen standing, or sitting, listening to the stories 
told of the country far away across the seas. The 




44 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Sisters wore a black habit, a small purple cape which 
reached to the elbows, and a white cap covered by a 
black veil, except for a one inch crimped border around 
the face. Sometimes, when it was time to leave the 
convent, a certain group would step forward to say 
good-bye to the Sisters and to ask their prayers. These 
would be men ordered to leave during the week as a 
draft for some battalion in the trenches. And the lads 
“ would be remembered in the Sacred Presence there, 
where remembrances are sacred and each memory holds 
a prayer. ” Day and night, as the Sisters knelt before 
the Lord and offered their continuous prayers for a 
world that seemed to have forgotten Him, special 
prayers were said for those whose badges hung on 
Our Lady’s mantle. 


Chapter XYI 

The Battalion is Broken Up 

We were not in England three weeks when orders 
came for a draft of men to reinforce a battalion that 
had suffered severe losses at the front. In a few days 
one hundred and fifty men left for France. We thought 
at the time that reinforcements would soon come to us 
from Canada, but not much more than a week passed 
till we were called on for another draft. This time the 
order was that three hundred and fifty men be sent to 
the Eighty-seventh Battalion. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


45 


This second order came as a shock to us all. Many 
of the officers had been in the battalion for almost a 
year; they had watched it grow strong and numerous 
and had helped to form, the thing most essential in a 
battalion, an “esprit de corps.” I had never thought 
of going to the front except as a unit. The idea of 
our being broken up had never entered my mind, but 
before Christmas came our battalion had lost its iden¬ 
tity as the One Hundred and Thirty-second Battalion, 
and the majority of the men had gone to join different 
units at the front. It was impossible for me to be with 
all my men, as there were no two drafts in the same 
brigade; still, I thought that I might be permitted to 
go as chaplain to the brigade in which was the largest 
number of my men, so I obtained permission to go to 
London to explain matters to the senior chaplain. He 
was very kind, but he said I must await my turn; there 
were other chaplains whose battalions had undergone 
the same process of annihilation as had mine. These 
must go first; work would be found for me in England 
till my turn would come to go to the front. 

I returned to Bramshott Camp a somewhat wiser man 
as to the workings of things military. But as I sat in 
the cold first class compartment, with my feet on a 
stone hot water bottle (seemingly this is the only way 
they heat the cars in England) my mind was busy 
with many things. One was that I never should have 
offered my services as chaplain had I foreseen the 
catastrophe which had befallen us. I had counted on 
being with my men till the last. Before leaving for 
overseas many of the mothers of the lads had come to 



46 


THE RED VINEYARD 


me and had told me what a great consolation it was to 
them to have the assurance that a Catholic priest would 
be with their sons. Now I was not going with them; 
still, I had been convinced that the lads would be well 
cared for spiritually. 

At Bramsliott I became assistant for a time to the 
camp chaplain, Father John Knox. 


Chapter XVII 

The Little Spaniard 

I had not been given very much information at head¬ 
quarters as to how soon I might be sent to the front, 
for they did not know how soon the call might come 
for chaplains. 

In a few days the remnants of my battalion left 
Bramshott for a camp at Shoreham-by-Sea — all save 
a few, who stayed as officers, servants or clerks in 
different branches at headquarters. 

One afternoon I was sitting before Father Knox’s 
tiny fireplace in his little room, talking of the Sunday 
church parades, when a very young soldier entered, 
saluted, passed Father Knox a letter and then stood at 
attention. I did not notice the lad particularly, as 
Father Knox read the letter in silence, for my eyes 
were on the small heap of glowing coals in the grate 
before me, and my mind was busy on a scheme to get 





THE RED VINEYARD 


47 


all the men in the camp at two church parades on the 
following Sunday. 

As Father Knox began to write the answer, he looked 
up from the paper and asked, “ Catholic f” 

Then for the first time the lad began to speak, hur¬ 
riedly, and with foreign accent. His eyes took on a 
queer strained expression; his head seemed to crouch 
down to his shoulders. 

It transpired that he was a Spaniard and had been 
brought up a Catholic, but after going to Canada had 
been accustomed to go to Protestant churches. He 
was now orderly to a Protestant minister and had re¬ 
ceived a few books from him including a copy of the 
New Testament in Spanish, so at present, his religion 
was the “Lord Jesus.” 

I had already turned from the fire and was watching 
the lad. It was the first time I had ever heard a 
Catholic speak so, and I felt a great pity for him. But 
quickly the pity gave place to other emotions, for in 
reply to Father Knox’s question as to what battalion 
he came over with, he said “One Hundred and Thirty- 
second”— my own battalion! Slowly a dazed, nau¬ 
seating feeling chilled me. Such a thing to happen! 
I was responsible to God for this man’s soul; and 
apparently he had lost his faith! 

I questioned him a little, only to learn that now he 
was orderly to a Baptist minister and that it was he 
who had given him the New Testament in Spanish. 
I appointed an evening for the lad to come to see me. 
He came and we talked for a long time, but he seemed 
to be strangely obsessed. The more we talked, the 




48 


THE RED VINEYARD 


more I noticed the queer, strained expression in his 
eyes, and when he left me that night I feared I had 
not done very much towards reviving his faith. It 
was many months before I saw him again. 


Chapter XVIII 

The Garrison Church Hut 

The days passed quickly. New battalions from home 
came and took up quarters in camp, and to their sur¬ 
prise were broken up and sent in drafts to France. 
Every night Father Knox or I remained on duty in 
the little garrison hut, that the lads might have an 
opportunity of going to confession before leaving for 
France. 

The garrison church hut had been built by the mili¬ 
tary authorities for the use of all religious denomina¬ 
tions. It was used on Sundays by the Catholics, or, as 
the Army Equivalent has it, R. C.’s, at seven o’clock 
for the Communion Mass for the men. The Protestant 
denominations had the use of it all the rest of the day. 
There was a little altar on which the Anglicans offered 
their Communion service, but we never used this. 
Father Knox had an altar of his own, on rollers, which 
was moved out in front of the other one before Mass 
and wheeled back after Mass. 

Just outside the entrance to the hut had been erected 




THE RED VINEYARD 


49 


a large blackboard for announcements of services. Al¬ 
ways on Saturday night this board held the order of 
the Anglican services. We had never interfered with 
this, as the Anglican is recognized as the official relig¬ 
ion of the British army. However, one Saturday even¬ 
ing as I came out alone from the hut I happened, in 
passing, to glance at the board. The customary an¬ 
nouncements were not there; instead, was written in 
bold white letters the order of Catholic services for 
the morrow. Not only was the notice of the camp serv¬ 
ice given, but the Benediction at Grayshott Convent 
was mentioned also. For a few seconds I stood gazing 
at the sign, in great surprise. Soldiers passing along 
the little lane paused to read and then passed on. I 
knew Father Knox could have had nothing to do with 
it. Then, as I stood there in the night looking at the 
announcement board, I smiled. “Tim Healy,” I said, 
“Tim Healy!” 

Tim Healy was a lieutenant who had come over from 
Canada with an Irish battalion. Like many another 
it had been broken up and Tim was waiting anxiously 
his turn at the front. He had been born in Ireland 
and was a near relative of the great Tim Healy. The 
following afternoon I saw him at the Convent of the 
Cenacle. I went across the room to where he was sit¬ 
ting, and waited till he had finished his tea. Then, 
without any preamble, I said: “Mr. Healy, why did 
you erase the announcements on the board outside the 
church and put the Catholic order on?” 

Tim forced an expression of innocent wonder into 




50 


THE RED VINEYARD 


his face, which, I thought, was a little too elaborately 
done; but almost simultaneously appeared a pleasant 
twinkle in the eyes of him. 

“No, Father,” he said, “I didn’t,” then he smiled 
broadly and his eyes twinkled merrily. 

I looked at him in great surprise, for I was almost 
certain that he had done it. But Tim had not finished, 
and as his eyes continued to twinkle said quietly: “But 
I sent one of my men to do it. I hope he did it well.” 

“Oh, yes,” I said grimly, “I think it was done well 
— if not too well.” However, nothing ever came of it. 


Chapter XIX 

The New Sacrifice 

Things went much the same at Bramshott. Spring 
came, and for the first time I saw the primroses, which 
are among the first flowers to bloom in England. They 
do not belong to the aristocracy for one sees them 
everywhere; along railway embankments, along the 
roadsides, near the hedge-rows, everywhere patches of 
the pretty little yellow flowers smiled the approach of 
spring. 

Then one day when the spring birds, nesting in the 
great old English trees, were cheering up the poor 
war-broken lads that lay on their little cots in so many 
military hospitals throughout the country — Vimy 
Ridge had been fought, and many of the lads who had 



THE RED VINEYARD 


51 


sailed with me had fallen that victory might come — 
word came that I was to join the Fifth Canadian Divis¬ 
ion, which was then preparing to go overseas. 

It was a beautiful day when I left for Witley Camp 
where the Fifth Division was quartered. The birds 
were chorusing their glorious melodies from hedge and 
tree and field; but along lanes that should have worn 
a peaceful country setting went clumsily great motor- 
lorries in different ways connected with the war. 

Witley Camp was only six miles from Bramshott, 
so it did not take us long to speed over the Ports¬ 
mouth road through the beautiful Surrey country. 

I took up temporary quarters with my old friend 
Father Crochetiere, and slept on a table in his office. 
I was not very long there when another old friend 
dropped in to see me in the height of Father Hingston, 
S. J. Both priests welcomed me very kindly and told 
me I was just in time to help in the remote preparation 
for a stirring event. They spoke with great enthus¬ 
iasm, and it was not long before I was made aware of 
the cause. A Solemn High Mass was to be celebrated 
in the open air the following Sunday, and the Catholic 
soldiers from all parts of the camp were to attend in 
order to be consecrated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. 
There were more than three thousand Catholic soldiers 
in the camp. The following Sunday morning I was up 
very early to help in the preparations. 

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was up, clear, 
bright, and warm. The air was very still. Though 
preparations, both military and religious, had been 
most carefully made, there was discernible in the 




52 


THE RED VINEYARD 


manner of the priests who had worked so hard for 
the bringing about of this great religious ceremony 
some signs of anxiety. They feared lest there be a 
hitch in the deliverance of orders, so that all the men 
might not be present. There was no need to fear, 
for at 9:30 o ’clock three thousand Catholic soldiers 
drew up in the grove of pines on the border of the 
lake at the northwest corner of the camp and all 
anxiety disappeared. There were French Canadian 
lads from the Province of Quebec; Irish Canadian 
Rangers from Montreal; Scotch laddies, with feathers 
in their caps, from Ontario and Nova Scotia; Indian 
lads from Eastern and Western Canada. 

An altar had been built against one of the very 
few oak trees that stood in the grove of pines, and 
above the cross that stood upon it, a large picture of 
the Sacred Heart of Jesus was nailed to the tree; sur¬ 
mounting all was a canopy of larch and ivy leaves. 
Daffodils, tulips and larch stood out brightly among 
the candles on the white altar. All about the carpeted 
elevation on which the altar had been built stood many 
potted plants. 

As the parade was drawn up beneath the trees, on 
the carpet of dry pine needles and the last year’s oak 
leaves, bands of different battalions played and the 
kilted laddies made music with their pipes. 

Father Crochetiere sang the Mass, with old Father 
McDonald, who had come over as chaplain to a Scot¬ 
tish battalion, as deacon and the writer as sub-deacon. 
The choir of thirty voices which sang the Royal Mass 
so beautifully was under the direction of Lt. Prevost 
of the One Hundred and Fiftieth Battalion. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


53 


And so under the British oak where “Druids of old” 
once offered their pagan sacrifices, the Holy Sacrifice 
of the New Law was offered, and Canadian lads knelt 
to adore. And there by the quiet lakeside the miracle 
of God’s wonderful love was wrought, and the promise 
made by the Divine Master on the border of another 
lake, the day following the multiplication of the loaves 
and fishes, was fulfilled. For many of the soldiers had 
waited till this late Mass to go to Communion, and 
under the beautiful sunlight that filtered through the 
trees they knelt to receive the “Bread of Life.” 

After Mass a short sermon was preached in English 
and French by Father Kingston, S. J., chaplain to the 
Irish Canadian Rangers, in the course of which he 
explained clearly and beautifully what the ceremony of 
consecration meant. 

Then Colonel Barre, commanding the One Hundred 
and Fiftieth Battalion, read the Act of Consecration 
to the Sacred Heart of Jesus in French, and Major 
McRory, officer commanding the One Hundred and 
Ninety-ninth Irish Canadian Rangers, read it in Eng¬ 
lish. Each soldier was then presented with a badge 
of the Sacred Heart. 

And just as of old the multitude who followed the 
Divine Master were blessed before they departed, so, 
after the Consecration to the Sacred Heart had been 
made, the lads knelt while Benediction of the Blessed 
Sacrament was given, and then all was over. “He 
blessed them and sent them away.” 

As I stood that day by the little altar near the 
lakeside, while bands played and the lads fell in pre¬ 
paratory to departing, I could not help thinking of 




54 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the many different places where they had worshipped 
since they had left Canada; and though I could not 
foresee the strange scenes they would inevitably meet 
on the red road of war, which they would shortly 
travel, still I felt sure that one day would stand out 
in their memories in bold relief — the day they made 
the Act of Consecration to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, 
— the day when they knelt before God’s altar built 
in the open air under the trees by the lakeside — and 
Jesus passed! 


Chapter XX 

Through English Lanes 

The early summer in England, especially in Surrey, 
is very beautiful, and as the work was light we had 
many opportunities to walk through the lovely country 
roads. But even prettier than the highways were the 
lanes that led off from them and went winding, with 
their hedges, through copse and field, and quaint little 
red brick villages, each with its century-old, ivy-cov¬ 
ered church that had come down from the good old 
Catholic days. In some of them a statue of some 
saint still stood, and in many were ancient holy-water 
stoops and baptismal fonts. 

Often gigantic chestnut or oak trees, grouped near 
a quaint old gate, told us of the entrance to some 
baronial estate or castle; but nearly always our only 





THE RED VINEYARD 


55 


view of the estate was a piece of road with very care¬ 
fully trimmed box-hedge or a great blazing hedge-row 
of rhododendrons, and a small white board, attached 
to a gate-post or tree, which informed the passing way¬ 
farer that there was “No Thoroughfare.” 

It was very pleasant to steal away from the camp 
and the sounds of shouted orders, and practicing mili¬ 
tary bands and bugle notes, to the quiet country where 
the birds sang blithely and the strange notes of the 
cuckoo’s solitary call from some distant tarn or wood 
came sweetly to the ears; one forgot, for the moment, 
the thought of war and all associated with it. 

I remember one afternoon I had taken a walk with 
Father Hingston and Father Crochetiere down a shady 
lane that wound, for the most part, through a high 
woodland, when we came suddenly to a small village 
of seven or eight houses. To our right was a long 
box-hedged footpath, winding through a field or two 
till it was swallowed up in a grove of tall, full-leafed 
beech and oak trees that stood presumably before a 
rich country seat. But we did not take the foot-path 
to the right. Instead, the priests, — both had been 
here before, — turned to the left and presently we 
had passed through a little gate into a very small but 
lovely rose garden. A tiny path, with a tiny box¬ 
wood hedge not more than a foot high, led from the 
gate to the door of an old-fashioned white house. Just 
before the door was built a latticed portico, over which 
climbing roses grew. We were admitted by an elderly 
housekeeper and were asked to go up-stairs. 

There we found a priest whose age might have been 




56 


THE RED VINEYARD 


forty-five and whose hair was just beginning to turn 
grey about the temples. He was about medium height, 
rather slight, with an ascetic face. He was sitting in 
a low room which was very bare save for a table on 
which were some morning papers. Across the hall 
was a room in which was a great old-fashioned fire¬ 
place with an ingle-nook. The priest’s name was 
Father McCarty, but he spoke with a decidedly Eng¬ 
lish accent. He was a member of a religious community 
known as the Salesian Fathers. Knowing that he had 
such a very small parish, I asked him if he found the 
time heavy on his hands. He replied that he did not; 
and that although he had only three or four families 
in all, including the rich household of Capt. Rus- 
brook, whose large estate we had passed on entering 
the village, he was quite busy, as he was writing the 
life of the founder of his order, Don Bosco; he also 
from time to time helped the chaplains at Witley 
Camp. 


Chapter XXI 

At Parkminster 

There was a different spirit in Witley Camp than 
there had been at Bramshott; for in the whole division 
— twelve battalions of infantry and three brigades of 
artillery, etc., — was the one feeling of expectation of 
soon going overseas. Any day the orders might come. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


57 


Father Hingston had made a retreat in London, and 
Father Crochetiere had jnst returned from five days’ 
rest and prayer at the wonderful monastery of the 
Carthusian Fathers, at Parkminster. I decided to go 
there. 

The following Monday, late in the afternoon, I drove 
up the winding drive, through hawthorn hedges, to 
the gates of the monastery. Everything seemed very 
quiet; no one appeared in garden or window. A bell- 
rope hung outside the blue-grey door. I pulled it 
quickly. From somewhere within came a great clang¬ 
ing, and almost simultaneously a clatter of heavy boots 
on stone flags. Inside, a bolt shot back, and immed¬ 
iately a white-garbed, white-bearded old brother stood 
before me, smiling in the opening. He shook hands 
with me and bade me enter. 

“We have been expecting you, Father,” he said, 
with that gentle courtesy that one finds in a religious 
house. He took my grip, notwithstanding every pro¬ 
test and led me along the rough, stone-floored corridor 
to the Guest House, where I was given a large, airy 
corner room, plainly though adequately furnished. 
Snow-white sheets were on the bed — I had not seen 
sheets for a long time. 

The old white brother told me to sit down, — that 
presently the Retreat Master would come. Then he 
left me. I went over to a window and looked out. 
Just below was a large garden with rose-fringed walks, 
enclosed by a very high stone wall. Outside the wall 
green fields, fringed with dark trees, stretched far 
away. Beyond these, rolling Sussex downs, looking 



58 


THE RED VINEYARD 


greyish-blue in the summer haze, rose to meet the sky¬ 
line. 

A strange peace was everywhere, and save for a 
slight nervousness that seemed to have come to me 
with the great silence of the house, I was glad that 
I had come. 

In a little while a knock sounded on the door and 
the Retreat Master entered. He was not very tall, and 
rather slight, and though his hair was grey he was 
not old. There was nothing very distinctive in his 
face, now rough with a three-days’ growth of beard — 
the rule of the order is to shave every fifteen days — 
and there was not much color in his cheeks. The eyes 
were small, grey and almost piercing. But there was 
that same indefinable atmosphere of peace about him. 
It seemed as if he had stepped aside from the great 
noisy highway of the world to listen in silence to the 
voice of God. Yet, as he talked, the Father seemed 
to take a childish interest in all that I told him of 
my experiences in a great military camp with officers 
and men of the world. But away below the wonder 
that rippled over the surface of the spirit of the monk 
there seemed to be great depths of silence, and as I 
tried to fathom these depths, I felt a strange helpless¬ 
ness come over me. I could not understand this man 
who sat smiling simply and cordially, and at the same 
time seemed to be enveloped in an atmosphere not of 
this world. 

Before he left for the evening the Retreat Master 
pointed to a card that hung on the wall. “The Order 
of Retreat,” he said. “You will be able to follow it?” 




THE RED VINEYARD 


59 


I assured the Father that I would, and then he was 
gone for the night. 

My retreat passed very quickly — I had only five 
days — and during that time I forgot all about war 
and preparations for war. Every day for about half 
an hour the Retreat Master came to my room and 
talked a little. He told me many things about the 
monastic life that I found very interesting. Each 
monk, he explained, lived in a little brick two story 
house which was attached to the great main corridor 
that formed a quadrangle about the church. The 
lower story was a kind of workshop in which was a 
lathe and different kinds of carpenters’ tools, and to 
it the monk descended in his free time to do manual 
work. A small garden, in between the different houses, 
was allotted to each monk, where he worked for a 
while each day and grew vegetables for his own frugal 
board. 

One day I told the Retreat Master that I had read 
a description of Parkminster in one of the late Mon¬ 
signor Benson’s novels, “The Conventionalists.” 

The monk smiled reminiscently. He recalled the day 
that Mr. Benson — he was an Anglican at the time of 
his visit — in company with another minister, had 
called. Mr. Benson had seemed very much interested. 
The other had made some strange remark. Monsignor 
Benson had never visited the Monastery as a priest, 
nor had he ever brought any one there to join the 
community. The monk assured me of this, and he had 
been Guest Master for many years. Yet when I had 
read “The Conventionalists” I had been almost con- 




60 


THE BED VINEYARD 


vinced that the story related was a personal experience. 
It may have been to some other monastery that the 
young man had gone, although Monsignor Benson had 
said Parkminster. 

Shortly before I left the monastery the Retreat 
Master came to have a last chat. “When you reach 
the front,” he said, “tell your men that we are pray¬ 
ing for them day after day, night after night.” 

I felt a strange feeling of security on hearing these 
words, but as I left the monastery gates and turned to 
say farewell to the old monk, I felt a distinct sinking 
of my heart. “Perhaps,” he said rapturously, “you’ll 
be a martyr! ’ ’ 


Chapter XXII 

Orders For France 

Not a week had passed after my retreat, when one 
morning a runner from divisional headquarters came 
into my hut, saluted and passed me a paper. I was 
ordered to France. This was good news, for I had 
now been in the Army over a year. The battalion had 
been recruited to full strength early in 1916, and I 
had hoped to be in France before the end of that year. 
It was now June, 1917. 

The following morning I left Witley Camp for 
London, where I was to receive further orders and 
equip myself with bed-roll, trench boots, etc. At head- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


61 


quarters, in London, I learned that I was to go to 
No. 2 Canadian Infantry Base Depot, at Etaples. 
From there, after a while, I would be sent to the 
trenches. 

Etaples is a quaint little fishing village on the Canche 
River, about two miles from its mouth. Before the 
war it had been a famous resort for artists; quite a 
colony had lived in the little town. Apart from its 
quaintness and the picturesque costumes of the towns¬ 
folk, its chief interest for artists lay in its beautiful 
sunsets. It was a glorious sight to look down the 
Canche, widening between the jack-pine-crested sand 
dunes, as it flowed nearer the sea, to the great golden 
sun sliding down towards the merry dancing blue 
waves of the Straits of Dover, slowly turning red and 
redder as it sank among the long pencils or banks of 
reddening clouds fringed with gold. When the sun 
would sink into the waves the water would be crim¬ 
soned for miles, and for a long time after the great 
red disc had disappeared the distant sails of the fish¬ 
ing boats made a very pretty picture as they moved 
silently over the waves. 

Etaples, besides being quaint, was a very dirty little 
town. At any hour of the day one might see a good 
housewife come to the door and empty a tub of soapy 
water that had served its use into the cobbled-street, 
where it was mingled with other soapy waters that 
ran continuously along the gutters. Every morning 
piles of garbage appeared in the streets before the 
houses. 

During the war almost every house bore a sign 




62 


THE RED VINEYARD 


nailed to the door upon which was written or printed 
the word “Estaminet,” which signified that within 
one might purchase wine, beer, coffee and other re¬ 
freshments. Sometimes accompanying the sign was a 
smaller one, bearing the English words, “Eggs and 
chips.” 

All the narrow cobble-stoned streets that ran from 
every direction into the village stopped at the large 
market square. Market days were twice a week, and 
then it was difficult to find one’s way through the 
crowds who came to buy from the black- or white- 
hooded country women, whose market wagons, mostly 
drawn by donkeys, were laden with everything imagin¬ 
able from farm, house, and field. It was a striking 
scene there in the old market square before the town 
hall. Soldiers from almost all the Allied armies could 
be seen there, while nurses from the great military 
hospitals, about one-half mile from the town along 
the road that followed the Canche towards Camiers 
and the sea, moved quickly, nearly always two by two, 
carrying small market-baskets. 


Chapter XXIII 

At No. 2 Canadian Infantry Base Depot 

At the No. 2 Canadian Infantry Base Depot I had 
the most wonderful opportunity of the war to study 
the Catholics of the allied armies — Irish, Scotch, 



THE RED VINEYARD 


63 


Welsh, English, New Zealand, Australian and Portu¬ 
guese. For here were depot camps for all these troops. 
Often there would be as many as one hundred thousand 
men training at one time, but after every engagement 
drafts would be called for up the line. Then they 
would be given their full equipment from the large 
ordnance stores at Etaples, and in the evening they 
would come to confession and Communion. There 
were two large Catholic recreation huts, with a chapel 
in each. On Sundays folding doors were opened and 
the whole hut became a chapel; hundreds of soldiers 
came to assist at the different Masses that were said 
in each hut. 

In the evening great numbers came to confession, 
and always crowds assisted at the early week-day 
morning Mass. Every evening priests would be on 
duty in the little chapels hearing confessions and, if 
soldiers had been called urgently and were leaving 
for the front, giving Communion. 

It was my lot for the most part to hear confessions 
in the Catholic hut to which came not only my own 
Canadian lads, but the Irish of the famous Sixteenth 
Division: Connaughts, Leinsters, Munsters, Irish Guards, 
etc. It was wonderfully edifying to sit evening after 
evening and hear the confessions of these Irish lads. 
They would usually begin by saying, “God bless you, 
Father!” They came in extraordinarily large num¬ 
bers every night and always stayed a long while to 
pray. The faith seemed to be part of their very being. 
Though they did not parade it, these lads seemed 
scarcely to breathe without showing in some way the 




64 


THE RED VINEYARD 


love for their faith. When they met the Catholic 
chaplain in the street, they did not give him the sa¬ 
lute they were supposed to give him, in common with 
all other officers. They always took off their hats. 
They were the only soldiers who ever did this. I 
asked an Irish Catholic officer about it one evening. 
“Why, Father,” he said, “they think the military 
salute not good enough for a priest. It does all very 
well, they think, for a general or a field marshal or 
the King of England, but it’s not enough for a priest. 
They must take their hats off, although they break a 
military rule by so doing.” “God bless them,” I said 
warmly. 

The Queen of England visited the hospitals and 
military depots of Etaples while I was there. Happen¬ 
ing to be near the Irish depot when she was about to 
pass, I stood among the great crowds of soldiers that 
lined each side of the road. In about three minutes 
the Queen would come along. Suddenly I heard the 
high, effeminate voice of an English officer of superior 
rank calling out: “Tell that man to put on his coat. 
See here, you!” 

Looking in the direction towards which the colonel 
called, I saw an Irish soldier, minus his tunic, go gal¬ 
loping in his heavy military boots through a path that 
widened accommodatingly for him and closed behind 
him, so that progress was almost impossible for the 
aristocratic colonel, who perhaps wished to identify 
the man. 

I remember one evening after I had finished con¬ 
fessions in Oratory Hut and had come back to the 



THE RED VINEYARD 


65 


tent in my own lines, finding a young Scotch officer 
sitting at the little deal table waiting for me. After 
talking for awhile, he told me that for some time he 
had been wishing to become a Catholic, and that if 
I could spare the time he would begin instructions 
whenever I wished. 

We began that night, and a few weeks later I bap¬ 
tized him in the chapel of Oratory Hut. An English¬ 
man — I think his name was Edmund Hanley — stood 
sponsor. During the ceremony the chaplain of the 
Portuguese soldiers came in and knelt reverently. 
When all was over and we had offered congratulations, 
the Portuguese priest shook hands with the neophyte; 
then he came over to me and gave me both his hands 
warmly. Although he could not speak my language, 
nor I his, still we were brother priests, and I was sure 
he knew the joy I felt over this new sheep coming into 
the fold of Christ. 


Chapter XXIV 

The New Zealanders 

Of all the lads of different nationalities who visited 
the little chapel in the evening and who came so 
often to Holy Communion in the early morning, I 
think I liked the best the New Zealanders. They were 
nearly all tall, lithe men, dark-haired, with long, nar¬ 
row faces, and eyes that had a strange intensity of 




66 


THE RED VINEYARD 


expression: perhaps one might call them piercing. 
They were quiet-voiced men and spoke with rather an 
English accent. They were the gentlest, finest men 
it was my good fortune to meet in the army. They 
were excellent Catholics, many of them daily communi¬ 
cants. The Maoris, the aborigines of New Zealand, 
were treated by the white men with the same courtesy 
that they showed one to another. The Maoris were 
the most intelligent looking men of the yellow race I 
had ever met. In fact, it was only by their color — 
which was almost chocolate — that one could distin¬ 
guish them from the New Zealanders themselves. 
Those of the Maoris who were Catholics were excellent 
ones. 

I recall one incident which impressed me very much 
with New Zealand courtesy. I had come to a segrega¬ 
tion camp, just outside the little village of Etaples, 
to arrange for the Sunday church parade of the sol¬ 
diers on the following day. The soldiers who were 
quartered in the segregation camp were men who had 
come in contact with those suffering from contagious 
diseases. They usually stayed in this camp about 
three weeks. If after this period no symptoms of any 
contagious disease appeared they returned to their 
different units. The day I speak of, three officers were 
sitting in the mess when I went to announce the serv¬ 
ices, two Englishmen and one New Zealander. I 
told the officer in charge that I should like to have 
the Catholic men paraded for Mass the following day, 
suggesting to him to name the hour most suitable. 
He, an Englishman, said eleven o’clock. I was about 



THE RED VINEYARD 


67 


to say, “Very well,” when the New Zealand officer 
interposed gently but firmly. “You will have to make 
the hour earlier than that, Captain,” he said. “You 
know the Father will be fasting till after his Mass.” 

The English officer looked at me quickly. “Why, 
Padre,” he said, “it did not occur to me that you 
would be fasting. Certainly, we’ll have it earlier. 
How about nine o’clock?” Nine would suit perfectly, 
I assured him. As I was to say an early Mass for the 
nurses at 7:30, I would just have time to move my 
altar to the dunes, where I was to celebrate Mass, 
before the soldiers would arrive. 

The Mass was finished very early that Sunday, and 
there was no long fast. I was very grateful to the 
New Zealander for his thoughtfulness. As I have said 
before, they were the gentlest, finest men I had ever 
met. 


Chapter XXV 

The Workers 

There was one thing about the natives of Etaples 
that impressed me particularly, and that was the re¬ 
spect each artisan seemed to have for his work. In 
the little village were candle-makers, bakers, boot¬ 
makers, makers of brushes, etc., and all these workmen 
seemed to be interested in their work and to have a 
great respect for it. They worked slowly, patiently, 



68 


THE RED VINEYARD 


and always thoroughly. I noticed the same spirit in 
the fields. Just beyond the hill and the giant wind¬ 
mill that overlooked the village, unfenced green fields 
sloped downward to green valleys, then up over the 
hills again. Through this open countryside wound 
the white roads of France; and always the great 
main roads were arched by ancient elms. Unlike Eng¬ 
land, not even a hedge divided the property of own¬ 
ers. Here every day crowds of farm laborers, most¬ 
ly women and girls, came early to work. One noticed 
a total absence of all modern farm implements. The 
women still used the old-fashioned reaping hook that 
was used long before the coming of Christ. What they 
cut they bound carefully into tiny sheaves. The 
women, for the most part, were dressed as the woman 
in Millet’s picture, “The Angelus,” from hood to wood¬ 
en shoes. Here, again, the work was done patiently, 
quietly, and thoroughly. The modern idea of saving 
labor seemed never to have come to them. Sometimes 
when not very busy I would take a walk through the 
long white roads, leading into a white-housed red- 
roofed village, the Norman tower of the little church 
piercing the tree-tops; then out again through more 
green unfenced fields to another little village two, or 
three, or sometimes four miles away. 

Often while on these walks, I used to think of the 
rugged strength of these sturdy French peasants who 
went so steadily and quietly about their work. They 
were strongly built people, well developed, and their 
faces were deep red — I suppose from so much work 
out of doors. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


69 


Chapter XXYI 

Orders Again 

I had come down to my tent one evening a little 
later than usual to find a D. R. L. S. letter from the 
Chaplain Service awaiting me. D. R. L. S. meant 
“Dispatch Riders’ Letter Service.” I opened it quick¬ 
ly, as a letter from headquarters, brought by a dis¬ 
patch rider, might contain very important orders. 
This was an order to report for duty at No. 7 Cana¬ 
dian General Hospital the following day. 

I looked at my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. 
It was very dark outside and the rain was beating on 
my tent. No. 7 was at least two miles distant, but I 
must see the chaplain before he would leave. I put 
on my trench coat and stepped out into the rain. 

As I drew near the hospital I was obliged to pass 
by a German prison camp. I suppose my thoughts 
were wandering that night. At least the first thing 
I realized was seeing through the rain the bright blade 
of a bayonet thrust at my breast; then I heard the 
voice of the guard: “Quick! Are you friend?” 

I stopped suddenly. I had not heard him challenge 
me the first time, which he surely must have done. I 
realized in an instant my position. “Yes,” I shouted, 
“friend.” 

“It’s a good job you spoke, sir,” warned the guard, 
and then he said, quickly, “Pass, friend.” 

Although I had realized my position, I had not felt 
the slightest alarm, but now as I walked along in the 



70 


THE RED VINEYARD 


darkness a strange fear took possession of me, so that 
I shook almost violently. I have been challenged often 
by sentries since that night, but it has never been 
necessary to inquire more than once; nor have I ever 
been halted so suddenly by a pointed bayonet. 

I found the out-going chaplain, Father Cote, packing 
his bed-roll, and as he packed he gave me all the ad¬ 
vice necessary to an incoming chaplain. The follow¬ 
ing morning he went up the line, and immediately 
after lunch I left No. 2 C. I. B. D., where I had been 
most cordially treated by both officers and men, and 
came to No. 7 Canadian General Hospital. 


Chapter XXVII 

Hospitals and Trains 

No. 7 Canadian General was only one of a group of 
hospitals situated along the highway that led from 
Etaples to Camiers. There were seven or eight large 
hospitals in all, though only two were Canadian, the 
others being British. Although I was quartered at 
No. 7, I had also to attend the other Canadian Hospital, 
No. 1. There were about 2,500 beds in No. 7, and 
about 2,000 in No. 1. 

At one end of No. 1, there was a marquee chapel- 
tent and at the rear of No. 7 there was a low wooden 
chapel called “Church of Our Lady, Help of Christ- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


71 


ians,” but this was used mostly by the British Cath¬ 
olics. 

The military hospital in France usually consisted 
of a number of long, low, detached one-story huts, 
built in rows, each row behind the other. Between 
the rows ran little lanes just wide enough to permit 
two ambulances to pass. There was a door in each end 
of every hut, so that it was very easy to go from one 
hut into the other. Each hut was a ward; in some 
hospitals they were numbered; in others they were 
lettered. Down each side of the aisle, running from 
door to door, was a row of beds — low iron beds cov¬ 
ered with army blankets. In most of the hospitals 
there were no counterpanes, but there were always 
clean white sheets and pillow-cases. At one end of 
the ward were two small cubicles, one of which was 
the nurses’ office, the other a kind of pantry and 
emergency kitchen, though nearly all the cooking was 
done in the general kitchen, which was a special hut. 

Into these large, quiet wards, far away from the 
roar of the heavy guns, the crackle of machine-guns 
and rifles, the wounded lads came, carried by train 
and ambulance. 

Many who will read these lines have seen the troop- 
trains, with their hundreds of khaki-clad lads leaning 
out from car windows, cheering, singing, and waving, 
as they were carried swiftly by on their way to sea¬ 
port or training-camp. Perhaps they have watched 
long companies of soldier boys march up dusty roads, 
while flags waved and bands played and people 
cheered, to the lines of cars waiting for them. If so, 





72 


THE RED VINEYARD 


they will recall the great buoyancy of the lads — their 
gaiety as they passed on their way to training-camp 
or port of embarkation for overseas. 

This light-heartedness accompanied them across the 
sea and went with them up through France as they 
journeyed in other troop-trains to the front. And 
whenever thirsty engines stopped at watertanks, or 
when a halt was made to exchange a tired engine, 
little French children assembled and gazed wide-eyed 
at the soldiers who had come from across the seas. 
They wondered, too, what those words meant that 
some one on the troop-trains always called out and 
which brought such a thundering response. Many 
trains went up along the same way through France 
and stopped, as others had stopped, and always some 
voice called out those words, and always hundreds of 
voices roared back, “No!” So in time the French 
children learned them, and whenever the trains slowed 
into a station the little ones would run to the cars, 
and one of their number would call out, “Har we doon- 
hearted?” Then, mingled with’the laughter of the 
khaki-clad lads, would come thundering the answer, 
“No!” 

After awhile trains bearing soldiers began to come 
down from the line. But when the engines stopped at 
watering-tanks or stations the little French children 
that gathered about them noticed certain differences 
between these trains and the ones that went up to the 
front. Everything seemed very silent, save for the 
slow panting of the engine. On the side of every car 
was painted, in the middle of a large white circle, a 



THE RED VINEYARD 


73 


red cross. No groups of laughing faces appeared at 
open car windows; though now and again the white, 
drawn face of some one lying in a berth peered out 
through the glass. Sometimes a white bandage was 
tied around the head, and sometimes on the white 
bandage was a dark red patch. No one called out, 
“Are we down-hearted V’ 

Trains kept coming down from the front somewhat 
irregularly; silent trains with red crosses painted on 
white circles on the sides of the cars. Then one day 
there was a slight change in the appearance of these 
hospital trains. The red cross was still there, but 
painted near one end, on the side of the car, was an 
oblong of red, white and blue about three feet long 
and two wide. The little children knew well what this 
was — the tricolor of France. But they did not know 
what the oblong of red, white and blue painted on the 
side, at the other end of the car, represented. The 
disposition of the color was different, and the forma¬ 
tion of the colored parts was not the same. There 
were more stripes in this oblong, and the stripes were 
narrower and red and white in color. In the upper 
corner was a small blue square with many white stars 
on it. Then one day some one told the little children 
that this was the flag of the Americans who had come 
from so far across the seas to help their fathers and 
brothers in the war. 

As I write these words I recall the passing of the 
trains of France. Those that went up took light¬ 
hearted lads who leaned from car windows and sang 
and cheered as they went through French villages. 




74 


THE RED VINEYARD 


And the trains that came down, with red crosses on 
them, had for their passengers quiet lads who lay in 
berths, bandaged in every conceivable way. But al¬ 
though they suffered much, and although occasionally 
a low moan escaped through pain-drawn lips, those 
wonderful lads were still “not down-hearted.” 

They passed through many different hands after 
they were wounded and always they were well treated. 
First, stretcher-bearers picked them up and carried 
them to the regimental aid post, which was usually a 
dug-out in one of the support trenches. Here they re¬ 
ceived treatment from the medical officer of the battal¬ 
ion and his staff. Then they were carried by other 
stretcher-bearers down the trenches to the field sta¬ 
tion, from which places motor ambulances took them 
to the advanced dressing station where bandages were 
re-arranged or improved. Then they went to the clear¬ 
ing station, where they remained for perhaps two or 
three days until there was a clearing for the hospital 
to which they were to go. 

Ambulances took them to the Red Cross trains and 
stretcher-bearers carried them gently to berths in the 
cars, and then they began their long journey to the 
base hospital — the big quiet hospital far away from 
the roar of the guns. From time to time medical offi¬ 
cers passed down the aisle of the car, and sometimes 
a Red Cross nurse, clad in light grey uniform, gave 
medicine to the wounded lads or examined a dressing. 

The journey from the casualty clearing station to 
the base hospital often took many hours. It was usu¬ 
ally evening when the long line of Red Cross cars 



THE RED VINEYARD 


75 


came slowly into the smooth siding that had been built 
since the war. The bugle call would sound and many 
hospital orderlies and stretcher-bearers would assem¬ 
ble, as, one after another, the big green ambulances, 
each one driven by a woman, came swiftly down to 
the siding. Gradually their speed slackened, and they 
moved slowly down the line of hospital cars, in the 
sides of which doors opened. Then gently and care¬ 
fully the wounded lads, wrapped in thick brown army 
blankets and lying on stretchers, were lowered from 
the cars and carried to the open ends of the ambu¬ 
lances, where the stretchers were fitted into racks 
running their full length — two above and two below. 
As soon as the stretchers were securely strapped the 
machine slowly moved off to the hospital, which was 
just a few hundred yards away. 


Chapter XXVIII 

DI’s AND Si’s 

I remember the day I arrived at No. 7. The quarter¬ 
master allotted me a burlap hut in the officers’ lines, 
just large enough to contain a low iron bed, a rough 
table, made of boards from an old packing case, a 
chair (which was not there) and a little stove when 
it was cold enough for one. I hung my trench coat on 
a nail and asked the two men who had brought my bed¬ 
roll to place it where the chair should have been. I 



76 


THE RED VINEYARD 


gave just one look around the liut, then went out again 
and up to the Registrar’s office, first to No. 1, then 
back to No. 7. 

Every morning a list was posted outside the Regis¬ 
trar’s offices, on which were printed the names of the 
D. I. ’s and S. I. ’s; those Dangerously Ill and Seriously 
Ill. For obvious reasons the Catholics of both classes 
were always prepared for death immediately. I found 
a number of Catholics in a critical condition and I 
administered the last sacraments to them. It was 
long after six o’clock when I finished my work. I 
was leaving No. 7 feeling a little tired, for I had 
covered quite a lot of ground on my visits, when I 
heard “Padre” called by one of the nurses, who was 
coming quickly behind me. 

I stopped until she came to where I was standing. 
She asked me if I were the new R. C. chaplain. On 
being answered in the affirmative she told me she had 
a list of men of my faith who should be seen by their 
chaplain immediately. She passed me her list as she 
spoke, and in a second or two I was comparing it with 
the names written in the little black book that I had 
taken from the left upper pocket of my tunic. I had 
seen them all: all had been “housled and aneled,” had 
been prepared to meet God. I told her so, quietly, 
and I showed her my little book. 

She compared the names: then she looked at me 
keenly. “My!” she said, “how you Catholic priests 
look after your men!” Then she was gone again. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


77 


Chapter XXIX 

Down the Hospital Aisle 

Although the emergency cases were attended at all 
hours by the chaplain, it was in the afternoon that 
the general visiting was done. Each patient, when 
he had entered the hospital, had attached to the but¬ 
tonhole of his shirt, or overcoat if he was wearing it, 
a thick waterproof envelope containing a card on 
which was written a description of the wounds he had 
received and the treatment that had been given them 
in the different stations through which he had passed. 
Sometimes, though not often, there was a smaller card 
attached to the large one — but we shall speak of this 
card later. The nurse in charge of the ward kept the 
cards of her patients in her office. As the religious 
denomination of the patient was always given on his 
card, together with the number of his bed, it was very 
easy for me to find my patients once I had written 
down the names from the cards. 

The first question that I usually asked the men, after 
I had inquired about their wounds, was how long it 
was since they were at Communion. Nearly always it 
was a few days or a week, as most of them had gone 
to Holy Communion before going into the trenches, 
though sometimes it was a month or two; and some¬ 
times a man looked up at me steadily and said, “Ten 
years, Father,” or perhaps fifteen, or perhaps more. 
Then I would say, quietly: “It will soon be time to 
go again, won’t it?” Usually the man smiled, but gen- 




78 


THE RED VINEYARD 


erally he agreed with me. When I would meet a man 
a long time away, I would make a note in my little 
book so that I might make some special visits to him. 
Often, I had the great joy of seeing men, a long time 
away from the sacraments, return to God. 

One afternoon I stopped at the bed of a bright¬ 
eyed young Canadian whose face lit up on seeing me, 
for he knew I was the priest. He had lost one of his 
arms above the elbow, so I began to talk to him of 
the wonderful artificial limbs that were being made for 
those disabled in the war. 

The lad just smiled quietly — he was not the least 
bit downhearted — as he said: “They can’t help me 
much in my line, Father.” Then he fumbled with 
his hand in the little bag in the small white locker 
that had been placed near his bed, and when he found 
his pay-book he asked me to open it and read the news¬ 
paper clipping that was there. The head-line said, 
“Pat Rafferty Enlists,” and underneath, in smaller 
print, was a second heading: “Champion Light Weight 
Boxer of Western Canada Goes to the Front with the 
- Battalion.” Then there were two short para¬ 
graphs, and below them was a picture of a young man 

% 

in civilian dress. I examined it a moment, and as I 
looked at the original I felt a wave of pity well up 
within me. Yet the brave young soldier smiled. 

It was not only Canadian soldiers who came to the 
hospital, for men of all the English-speaking armies 
were brought there. I always enjoyed a talk with the 
Irish wounded; they had such a warm friendliness and 
reverence for the priest. It really was not necessary 




THE RED VINEYARD 


79 


for me to procure the number of their beds, once these 
men knew that it was the priest who was coming 
down the aisle, for I could have found them by the 
eager, smiling faces that watched me as I came. They 
always got in the first word; before I quite reached 
their beds I would hear their truly Irish greeting, 
“God bless you, Father,” and then as I would shake 
hands, they would ask me eagerly how I was — I had 
come to see how they were. They always wanted a 
medal — they pronounced it more like “middle” — 
and it was a little one that they wanted. One day I 
spread out on the palm of my hand eight medals of 
assorted sizes, and told a great giant to help himself. 
Among the medals was the tiniest one I have ever 
seen. The great finger and thumb did not hesitate 
for a second, but groped twice unsuccessfully for the 
tiny medal; finally, the third time they bore it away, 
while over the large face of the Irish lad spread the 
delighted smile of a child. 

When I asked one of these lads which battalion he 
was in, expecting of course to be told the First or Sec¬ 
ond Munsters, or Leinsters, or Dublins, etc., but that is 
what I never heard. This is what they would say: 
“Father Doyle’s, Father,” or “Father Gleason’s, 
Father,” or “Father Maloney’s, Father.” 

One afternoon, just when I entered, my eyes fell 
on a bright face looking up over the blankets. I knew 
he was a Catholic, an Irishman, from the Munster 
Fusiliers, though I judged from the manner in which 
the large blue eyes regarded me that he was not so 
sure about my religion. I thought that there was also 



80 


THE RED VINEYARD 


a hint of battle in the glint of his eye, so I walked 
quickly over to his bed, without the faintest flicker of 
a smile, and said: “Let me see now, you’re a Baptist, 
aren’t you?” 

The blue eyes of the Munster lad blazed as he looked 
up at me. “No, sir, I’m not! I’m a Roman Catholic!” 
he said, and as he panted for breath, I said to him 
quietly: “Well, now, I’m glad to hear that. I’m a 
Roman Catholic, too!” 

Then swiftly the vindictive look faded out of the 
blue eyes of the Irish lad and a smile floated over his 
face as he said, somewhat shamefacedly: “Excuse me, 
Father — I didn’t know, Father — I’m glad to see you, 
Father,” (pronouncing the “a” in Father like the 
“a” in Pat), and a big red, brown-freckled hand was 
shyly offered me. It was only three days since Father 
Gleason gave him and all his comrades Holy Commun¬ 
ion, but he would be pleased, if it would not be too 
much trouble to His Reverence, to go again in the morn¬ 
ing. I wrote his name in the little book and promised 
to come in the morning with the Blessed Sacrament. 


Chapter XXX 

The Two Brothers 

I had been visiting the two brothers for over a 
week — indeed one of them for over two weeks, be¬ 
fore I knew they were brothers. One was in No. 1 




81 


THE RED VINEYARD 


hospital; the other in No. 7: one had been wounded in 
the chest or shoulder; the other in the knee. I car¬ 
ried messages one to the other, and they looked for¬ 
ward eagerly to my coming, for it was three years 
since they had seen each other. They used to antici¬ 
pate with great pleasure the day when they would be 
convalescent and could see each other. Then one 
evening the lad who was wounded in the knee told me 
that the following morning there was to be an evacu¬ 
ation for England and that he was among the number. 
Although he was glad to hear this good news, still 
he regretted very much not being able to see his broth¬ 
er before leaving. “It is so long since I’ve seen 
him, Father, and he is so near,” he said wistfully. 

I looked at the young fellow for a few moments, 
wondering silently what I could do to bring about a 
meeting of the brothers. First, I thought I might ob¬ 
tain permission for the ambulance to stop at No. 1 on 
its way to the siding, and that the young fellow mighf 
be carried in on a stretcher. But on second thought 
I felt it would be very difficult to obtain such a per¬ 
mission. Finally, I decided to ask the adjutant for 
permission to have him taken up to No. 1 on a wheel 
stretcher. The adjutant was very kind, granting my 
request. That evening the two brothers met for the 
first time in three years and passed two hours to¬ 
gether. 

This little act of kindness did not pass unnoticed, 
for I learned afterwards that it had met with the warm 
approval of many in both hospitals — I suppose be¬ 
cause it was just one of those little human touches that 




82 


THE RED VINEYARD 


everybody loves. But I could not help thinking of the 
numerous other meetings in the early morning, or often 
at any hour of the day or night, when through my 
ministrations two others were brought together, some¬ 
times after a much longer separation than that of the 
brothers. One would be some poor broken lad who 
sometimes was a little bashful or shy about the meet¬ 
ing; the other was Jesus of Nazareth, the Saviour of 
the world. Not many concerned themselves about 
these meetings, but — there was “joy among the 
angels.” 


Chapter XXXI 

An Unexpected Turning 

It was now November. The days were passing very 
quickly for I was kept busy; convoys were coming 
daily. Passchendael was being fought. I had to visit 
the D. IPs and S. IPs very often, for many were being 
admitted. One morning I stopped just long enough to 
prepare an Australian for death. He had been wound¬ 
ed through the throat and could not swallow, so that 
it was impossible for me to give him Holy Commun¬ 
ion. I absolved him and anointed him quickly, then I 
told him I must pass on as I had many more to visit. 
It was almost impossible for him to speak, and he 
did so with great pain, but as he gave me his hand and 
his dying eyes looked at me, he made a great effort. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


83 


“Clieerio,” he whispered. Truly these wonderful lads 
were not down-hearted! 

During the month of November thousands of pa¬ 
tients passed through the hospital. Everybody was 
working extremely hard. Sometimes during the night, 
convoys arrived. The anaesthetist, who sat next me 
at mess, told me that he was beginning to feel that he 
could not continue very much longer; for days he had 
been giving chloroform almost steadily, as there were 
very many operations. We were both longing for a 
little lull in the work so that we might get a few hours’ 
rest. 

There were many places where the officers of the 
hospitals used to go. There was “The Blue Cat” at 
Paris Plage, a famous seaside resort about three miles 
from Etaples, where they went to have tea and bathe 
in the sea. There was the village of Frencq, where a 
little old lady kept a small coffee house and made 
omelettes that were famous. Then there were two 
officers’ clubs and an officers’ circulating library at 
Etaples. I had been to the library at different times 
while at the base. There was a large reading-room ex¬ 
ceptionally well lighted, for it was a part of an old 
studio. Tea was served every afternoon from 3 :30 to 
6:00 o’clock, at which a number of old English officers 
assembled. It was very amusing to listen to them re¬ 
lating past experiences, in which often a good dinner 
was not forgotten. They treated the soldier-waiter 
as if he were one of their own personal servants, call¬ 
ing him often; and although there was but one syl¬ 
lable in his name (it was Brown) they managed to 



84 


THE RED VINEYARD 


twist the last letter into a rather complaining inflec¬ 
tion. I watched Brown a number of times, and al¬ 
though he came “on the double” and stood head erect, 
looking at his nose, as all good butlers do, still I 
thought I detected on more than one occasion a merry 
light in his bright brown eyes, and he seemed to be 
exerting a little extra will power in keeping his lips 
composed. 

Then one day there came a lull in the rush of work, 
and being advised by one of the officers to take a little 
recreation, I obeyed. 

I recall that afternoon particularly. I went to the 
officers’ circulating library, which was at the rear of 
the town hall, where I passed the afternoon very pleas¬ 
antly looking through a delightfully illustrated edition 
of “Our Sentimental Garden,” by Agnes and Egerton 
Castle, whose home I had visited while at Bramshott. 
The quarto volume contained many drawings of their 
pretty garden from different angles. It was very rest¬ 
ful sitting in the quaint old studio, through the great 
windowed wall of which streamed the autumn sun¬ 
light. 

Towards five o’clock tea was served by my old 
friend, the butler humorist. Then as the sun went 
quietly down into the sea, far out, I walked back to 
No. 7, feeling very much benefited by my visit, meet¬ 
ing hundreds of soldiers, nurses and civilians on the 
way. 

It was dusk when I entered my little burlap hut. I 
lit the lamp, and as I did, the light flashed over an 
open letter on my newspaper-covered desk. All the 




THE RED VINEYARD 


85 


feeling of exhilaration which had cheered my return 
walk left me suddenly, and an overwhelming, forebod¬ 
ing cloud came over my spirits; for the letter said: 
“Please come quickly, Padre, there is one of your men 
dying in Ward 3, bed 17. ” It was signed by the adju¬ 
tant of No. 1 hospital, and the hour of the day was 
marked on the letter. It had been sent at 2:30. It 
was now 6:00 p. m. I turned down the lamp and went 
quickly out of the little hut praying, as I ran up the 
road, that the lad might be still alive. I walked down 
the ward, not noticing the friendly faces that turned 
to greet me, as was their custom. The red screens ‘were 
around the bed. I moved them gently and stood quiet¬ 
ly by the lad’s bed. An orderly moved a little to one 
side. 

“He’s dead, sir,” said the orderly. “Died just a 
minute ago.” 

I put on my purple stole, gave the lad conditional 
absolution and anointed him conditionally. Then I 
stood for a long while looking on his still white face, 
wishing with all my heart that I had not left the hos¬ 
pital that day. Then the orderly made a little move¬ 
ment and I turned and went down the aisle of the 
ward, repressing a great desire to burst into tears; it 
was the first time, through my neglect, that I had ever 
missed a call to the dying. In passing I talked to a 
few patients, but there seemed to be a strange numb¬ 
ness in my brain, so that I did not follow the words 
spoken by the occupants of different beds where I 
stopped; one or two ceased speaking and looked at 
me keenly. 



86 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Just as I was about to leave the ward little Sister 
Daughney came in. She stopped and spoke to me, 
and her words were as sweetest music to my ear. 

“Ah, Father,” she said — Sister was from Ireland 
— “I sent for you this afternoon for the lad who has 
just died. He would have been glad to see you, Father, 
although there was no need; for he said he had been 
anointed and prepared for death just six hours be¬ 
fore up in the C. C. S.” 

I looked at the little sister talking so quietly and in 
such a matter-of-fact way: while thundering in my ears 
was the desire to break forth into a great Te Deam 
Laudamus. She spoke to me of two or three new pa¬ 
tients who might develop more serious symptoms, then 
passed on to other duties, whilst I went up the lane to 
my little marquee chapel to kneel before the tabernacle 
and make known to God my fervent gratitude. And 
so, after all, I had passed a very pleasant day. 


Chapter XXXII 

Private Belair 

The days passed quickly, for they were well filled, 
and sometimes at night the call would come; my door 
would open quite abruptly, awakening me, and the 
light from a small flash-light would dazzle my surprised 
eyes, while a voice called, “R. C. chaplain?” I recall 
one night in particular. I had been awakened by the 





THE RED VINEYARD 


87 


orderly calling, to find him standing at the head of 
my bed, his flashlight focused on a message written on 
white interlined paper that he held before my eyes. 
The words read: “Come quickly, Father, Wd 14, bed 
7, Belair, gassed.” It was signed Sister Kirky, who 
weighed almost 300 pounds. In twelve minutes I was 
dressed and standing in the ward by Private Belair. 
I was a little surprised to find him sitting up with just 
his tunic and boots removed. He sat in such a way 
that his arms rested over the back of his chair which 
he faced. He was panting terribly and was evidently 
suffering greatly. Every little while, when he seemed 
to have sufficient strength, he would begin to pray in 
whispered Latin, “0 bone Jesu,” then his voice would 
die out in a trembling whisper and the prayer would 
become inaudible. 

“Oh, Father,” he whispered, “I .am — so glad — 
you came. All my life — I have prayed — to have the 
grace.” Then he began to pray again, and I made 
ready to hear his confession. It did not take long for 
it cost him terrible agony to speak. Then I anointed 
him. I had not brought Holy Communion, being so 
eager to reach him that I had not taken time to go 
up to the chapel called “Church of Our Lady, Help 
of Christians.” My own marquee chapel had blown 
down a few days previous and I had removed the 
Blessed Sacrament to the above-mentioned church. I 
told the sick man I was going to bring our Blessed 
Lord, but that it might take a little while, as very likely 
I should find the church locked and should have to find 
the key. 




88 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Although the ward had been but dimly lighted it 
was extremely dark on coming out, for it was raining; 
and in my haste I tripped over a tent guy-rope, taut 
by the rain, and fell on my hands and knees on the 
cinder walk. Then I walked on more carefully, rub¬ 
bing tiny particles of cinders from my stinging hands. 
Just as I reached the chapel I was challenged by the 
guard. This time I answered quickly: “Friend. R. C. 
chaplain No. 7. Can. Gen. Hospital.” I stood to be 
recognized. Then the guard spoke, but this time softly, 
and he peered at my rain-wet face. “Ah, Father,” he 
said, “it’s you!” It was one of the Irish lads from the 
Sixteenth Infantry Base Depot who was one of the 
guards for the German prison camp opposite. He may 
have seen me saying Mass at Oratory Hut, or perhaps 
he had spent a few days at the segregation camp. 

The door of the little church was locked, and I did 
not know where to find the key. I knew that an Eng¬ 
lish Redemptorist, Father Prime, chaplain to No. 26 
British General Hospital, said Mass here every morn¬ 
ing; perhaps he might know where the key was kept. 
It was half a mile to Father Prime’s little hut at No. 
26, and I went very quickly, praying all the while for 
the poor gassed soldier that he might have the great 
privilege for which he had prayed so much. 

Father Prime was very easily awakened and seemed 
glad that it was not a call for him to go out in the 
rain. He had the key, and presently I was hurrying 
back to the little church. 

The Irish lad, still on guard, as I returned bearing 
the Bread of Life to the dying soldier in the hospital. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


89 


knelt on the rainy ground, and I could just tell that 
he was bowing his head as the Saviour passed. 

The poor fellow was still alive, though panting in 
great pain. He received Holy Communion most de¬ 
voutly. I felt that I was in the presence of an excep¬ 
tionally good man. In the afternoon he died. 


Chapter XXXIII 

A Little Nonsense 

It was hard work visiting the wounded, listening 
time after time to each one as he described the nature 
and history of his wounds, which in many cases were 
so similar. Often on leaving one hut only to enter an¬ 
other, I have paused to look longingly out to the est¬ 
uary of the Canche, where the sun would be sinking 
slowly, and breathe the strong, aromatic air coming 
from the sea and the marshes that grew from the river 
mud; then in again to great wards of poor broken 
lads and the antiseptic odors of the hospital. 

Although the spirits of the lads, on the whole, were 
bright and merry, and those who nursed them brought 
sunshine to their work, still one would scarcely think 
of entering any one ward with the intention of being 
entertained. Yet frequently I have gone into a certain 
ward of No. 7, Canadian General, with no other inten¬ 
tion than that of being amused. For in this ward were 
the malingerers, that is, the men who were trying to 



90 


THE RED VINEYARD 


“put one over” on the doctors. The soldiers called 
them “lead swingers.” The ingenuity of some of these 
men was really extraordinary. I have seen a case come 
through three or four different posts, diagnosed as 
measles, until finally the doctor in the stationary hos¬ 
pital saw that the man had used a preparation of some 
oil to bring out the rash, and had raised his tempera¬ 
ture with cordite. 

The first day I went into Wd. —, I was somewhat 
puzzled. I had not known that this was the ward of 
malingerers, and so was surprised to find so many 
healthy looking men in hospital. The nurse in charge 
looked a little surprised when I entered and said smil¬ 
ingly: “Well, Padre, what are you doing here? Nobody 
ever dies in this ward.” 

“Well, Sister,” I said, “as far as I can see now, 
every one has the appearance of being quite spruce.” 
Then she said quietly: “P. U. O.,” nodding her head 
a little after pronouncing each letter. Then she went 
into her cubicle to continue her work. 

That evening at dinner I asked the doctor who sat 
nearest me what was meant by “P. U. 0.” He smiled, 
then said: “ It means, Padre, ‘ Praxis of Unknown Ori¬ 
gin’,” and kept smiling as he continued: “We some¬ 
times meet a case which really puzzles us, but nearly 
always, when you see ‘P. U. 0.’ on a medical history 
sheet you can count on its being a case of malinger¬ 
ing.” He did not say very much till we had nearly 
finished our meal, then he said: “Wait, Padre, after 
dinner and we’ll see ‘Boots’.” 

This was a nickname for the doctor in charge of 



THE RED VINEYARD 


91 


Ward —, one of the jolliest M. O.’s in the mess. We 
found him in the ante-room, three or four others 
grouped around him; but instead of the customary 
broad smile on his good-natured fat face, there was a 
look of real indignation. He was explaining to his 
smiling listeners something about a few cases that had 
been sent to him; and as we drew near I caught these 
words:' “Dey had da hitch,” — the doctor was a 
French Canadian — “and dey were sent to my ward 
— height of dem! Sent to me, and dem wit da hitch !” 
Every one was laughing and trying unsuccessfully to 
suppress it. 

Then a young doctor interposed: “And what did 
you do, Boots?” 

“Do?” echoed the other. “What did I do? I just 
took dare papers and sent dem up to the skin disease 
hospital. Dere’s no room for men wit da hitch in my 
ward.” 

The mere thought of the indignity seemed almost too 
much for the good doctor, so he paused for a little and 
his face grew red as he looked around on his smiling 
audience. Then he said: “Da idea of sending men wit 
da hitch to me!” He had closed his lips tightly and 
was nodding to himself at the insult that had been 
offered his ward by having men with the itch sent to 
it, when the doctor who had spoken previously spoke 
again: “Yes, ‘Boots,’ the idea of sending sick men to 
your ward ! ’ ’ 

“Boots” looked at him quickly, and suddenly the 
dark clouds were dispersed and the light of his broad, 
sunny smile spread over his good-natured face. “Dat’s 



92 


THE RED VINEYARD 


hit,” he said. “What do dey want to send sick people 
to me for?” 

The others laughed and moved on, and presently I 
found myself making arrangements with Captain 
“Boots” to visit his ward when his “patients” would 
be undergoing treatment the following morning. The 
only condition the good doctor imposed was that I 
would not laugh. This I promised. 

The following day, as I walked down the aisle of No. 
—, I realized how hard it would be to fulfill the condi¬ 
tion the doctor had made for my visit. The men were 
undergoing “treatment”; some held the handles of a 
galvanic battery in their hands, while their bodies 
squirmed and twisted, but never for one instant did 
they drop the handles; others had their feet on steel 
discs in tubs of water, while others underwent elec¬ 
trical treatment in different ways. The doctor moved 
from bed to bed, inquiring with simulated solicitude as 
to the state of each patient, offering a word of en¬ 
couragement to some poor fellow who writhed under 
the current that passed through hands and feet. 

“Dat’s right, my lad,” the doctor would say en¬ 
couragingly, “just keep your feet on de disc.” Per¬ 
haps it did not occur to the good doctor that the man 
was powerless to take his feet off the disc! To another 
he would say: “Dere, now, my lad, we’ll soon have 
you in perfec health again” — and I would wonder how 
the strong, rosy-cheeked lad would look when in per¬ 
fect health. 

I was not surprised to hear two or three lads inform 
the doctor that they thought they felt well enough to 



THE RED VINEYARD 


93 


go back to their battalions again. The doctor would 
always agree with them. One fellow said, within my 
hearing : ‘ ‘ He might as well give us the chair at once ! ’ ’ 

I remember coming out of the ward that first day, 
and when I was out of view, I stood in the lane and 
laughed and laughed. The fat doctor had been so 
funny, and also the poor fellows, squirming and twist¬ 
ing under treatment that was not at all necessary for 
them. 

I made many subsequent visits to No. —. When¬ 
ever I would feel tired out from the more serious work 
of visiting the wounded, I would step down the lane 
and listen for awhile to Doctor “Boots” passing up 
and down the aisle giving his electrical treatment. 


Chapter XXXIV 

Transfusion 

Although the little wooden chapel called Church of 
Our Lady, Help of Christians was nearer No. 7, I 
always said Mass in the chapel at No. 1. It was won¬ 
derfully edifying there in that little marquee chapel. 
I don’t know who had had it erected, for it was stand¬ 
ing when I went to No. 1, but I do recall the devout 
congregations of walking wounded in their hospital 
suits of light-blue fleeced wool; the hospital orderlies 
who came so reverently; the white-veiled blue-clad 
nurses who came in large numbers. Two Masses were 




94 


THE RED VINEYARD 


said on Sunday so as to accommodate the different 
shifts of Sisters, and every Sunday evening there was 
Benediction and a short sermon. 

I remember one morning noticing that the hospital 
orderly who served the Mass trembled while answer¬ 
ing the opening responses. He was a tall, well-built 
young fellow with light hair, and usually his face had 
the glow of excellent health; but when he passed me 
the cruets, I noticed that his face had almost the pallor 
of death, and that although it was a cold morning in 
early autumn little beads of perspiration stood out on 
his white forehead. 

After Mass I asked him if he were not well. Then 
he told me quietly that he felt extremely weak, hav¬ 
ing given a quantity of his blood just a few days be¬ 
fore to save the life of a wounded soldier who was dy¬ 
ing from loss of blood. The wounded man was now 
recovering. It was not the first time he had given his 
blood, and, he said, as he smiled painfully and with 
the appearance of great weakness, he felt that it 
would not be the last time. 

As he moved about slowly and wearily, extinguish¬ 
ing the candles and covering the altar, I felt a great 
admiration for this generous lad, and I thought truly 
there are other heroic ways of giving one’s blood than 
shedding it on the battlefield! It was quite a com¬ 
mon occurrence in different hospitals to go through the 
process of transfusion of blood. The most necessary 
condition was that the blood of the donor be adapt¬ 
able to the system of the patient. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


95 


Chapter XXXY 

The Ministering Angels 

The nurses — “sisters” we called them — through¬ 
out all the base hospitals were most attentive to the 
wounded, without the slightest display of any maudlin 
sympathy; but they worked hard and long and one 
never heard the least complaint from their lips. It 
was a common occurrence at No. 7 to see a nurse be¬ 
ing ordered away for a complete rest, made necessary 
by the terrific strain of her work. 

The Catholic nurses were, on the whole, very faithful 
in the practice of their religious duties, many being 
weekly communicants. To communicate daily was not 
practicable for many, as they were on duty during 
morning Mass. Often I have seen a nurse come with 
five or six of her patients to Holy Communion: some 
back-sliders that she had rounded up. 

Often, while giving Holy Communion to a soldier in 
the ward of a non-Catholic nurse, I had been annoyed 
by the lack of any special preparations on the part of 
the sister for the administration of the Sacrament. 
But one morning I found a spotlessly white cloth spread 
over the small locker, a clean graduate glass of fresh 
water and a spoon. There was also on the locker a 
folded white towel for the lad to hold when receiving 
Holy Communion. 

It pleased me very much to see such care taken to 
prepare for the coming of Jesus, and it was with deep 
gratitude that I went to thank the sister in charge, 
after I had given the lad Holy Communion. 



96 


THE RED VINEYARD 


“Sister,” I said, “how did you know how to pre¬ 
pare everything so well? It was so clean, and every¬ 
thing necessary was there.” 

The good little sister seemed pleased that I had even 
noticed the preparations. Then she said: “Well, 
Padre, I knew just what was needed for I studied nurs¬ 
ing in a Catholic hospital.” 

As I went out of the ward the thought struck me 
how fine it would be if only all the non-Catholic sisters 
would prepare for the Saviour’s coming as had their 
sister nurse, and as I thought I formed a little plan. 

The following day I was notified by a non-Catholic 
sister to bring Communion to a boy in her ward; and 
there and then I tried out my plan. “Sister,” I said, 

“yesterday morning I was called to Sister -’s 

ward to administer one of my lads who is dangerously 
ill, and I was very much surprised to find the table 
arranged as if it had been done by an R. C. Sister.” 

“How did she have it arranged, Padre?” she asked. 
Then I told her just how things had been prepared. 
The following morning when I brought the “Bread of 
the Strong” to the poor wounded lad, I found, as on 
the previous day, everything spotlessly arranged for 
the visit of the Guest. 

After that, whenever a non-Catholic sister told me 
that a Catholic lad had need of my ministrations in 
her ward, I told her how well the last sister had pre¬ 
pared locker, etc., and invariably the following morn¬ 
ing, when I went in silence to the bedside, I found that 
all things had been made ready. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


97 


Chapter XXXVI 

More Orders 

December came. During the first week of that 
month I prepared my hut to stand the cold of the 
winter months and began to look forward to a time 
of relative repose after the past five months of stren¬ 
uous work. The fighting was not to be so intense 
during the winter, therefore there would not be so 
many casualties. I had been given a fine little coal 
stove, and I was beginning to enjoy coming into the 
hut at night to be greeted by its cheerful red glow. 
There were worse places to dwell in, I told myself, 
than a burlap hut with a coal fire burning in it. I 
was looking forward to peaceful winter evenings with 
books to read, or perhaps a few hours writing, when 
one evening just before dinner a knock sounded on 
the door and an officer stepped into my hut. I had 
never seen him before. He looked at me somewhat 
strangely for a second or two, then asked if I had not 
been expecting him, “for,” he said, “I am Captain 
Hawke, the new R. C. chaplain to No. 7 Canadian 
General Hospital. You are to go up the line.” 

For just a second a faint dizziness came over me, 
and the vision of bright coal fires faded from before 
my mind and I thought, with considerable falling of 
spirits, of winter in the trenches. 

I shook hands with the new chaplain and then I 
told him I had not been expecting him, and that so far 
no orders had come to me to report at the front. Just 



98 


THE RED VINEYARD 


as I spoke, however, another knock sounded on the 
door, and before I had time to open it an orderly en¬ 
tered and passed me a D. R. L. S. letter: I was to 
report at the Seventy-fifth Battalion the following 
day. 

So on the morning of December 11th, 1917, I left 
No. 7 with real regret. I had always found the doc¬ 
tors very friendly and they had shown me many kind¬ 
nesses. I had grown to love my work in the hospital, 
and the peace and quiet of the little marquee chapel 
at No. 1 Can. Gen. after the day’s work was done. 
Now, I must break new ground! 

It was a cold morning when I took my place on 
the seat of the ambulance alongside the driver. The 
waiters crowded about the door of the mess — the 
doctors had not yet come from their huts — and one 
of them, an old Scotchman wearing a glengarry, who 
had already seen service up the line, stepped forward 
and patted me on the back and wished me “guid 
luck.” Then the ambulance leaped into high gear 
and we were off to the station. 

There were certain formalities to be gone through 
at the military station at Etaples: certain papers had 
to be shown to the R. T. 0. and instructions received 
from him. It did not take long to give my instruc¬ 
tions. I was to take the train on No. 9 track. I was 
to detrain at Calonne-Ricouart; there I would re¬ 
ceive further instructions. 

There was a great crowd of troopers on my train 
who leaned from car windows and sang merrily as 
the train passed through French villages. Then, I 



THE RED VINEYARD 


99 


remember, as we stopped at one village, I heard in the 
distance the sound of the guns, and always as we ad¬ 
vanced came clearer and clearer the deep booming. 
For the first time I heard sounds of the actual conflict 
of the World War. 

An officer whom I had met on the train accompanied 
me to the staging camp, which was but a short dis¬ 
tance from the station at Calonne-Ricouart. I pre¬ 
sented my papers at the little office. The orderly 
room clerk looked at me quickly. “Why, sir,” he 
said, “you're in luck! The Seventy-fifth Battalion is 
just a few yards up the road. Better stay here for 
lunch, then I’ll send a runner with you.” 

I may have been lucky in finding the Seventy-fifth 
but there my luck ended for a few days: for when I 
entered headquarters of the Seventy-fifth, which was 
in an old chateau, I was told that there had been 
some mistake. They had a chaplain, a Presbyterian, 
who was then away on leave. The R. C. chaplain of 
the brigade was quartered with the Eighty-seventh. 
The adjutant treated me politely, but with a little sus¬ 
picion. He asked me for my papers. Then he re¬ 
quested me to be seated. I did so, but with a feeling 
of vague uneasiness; now and then an orderly clerk 
looked at me quietly though searchingly and then con¬ 
tinued his writing. 

I wondered where the mistake had been, and where 
I was really to go; but most of all I wondered at the 
suspicious glances that were flashed at me by different 
ones who came into the room. I waited for a long 
time, almost two hours; once or twice I was questioned 


> 

>> 


) 

9 


3 


> ) > 




100 


THE RED VINEYARD 


by the adjutant, and after each visit I wondered why 
he was questioning me so. Then the colonel came in, 
and he had not questioned me very long till I became 
aware that I had been suspected as a spy. I was 
asked to remain in the orderly room till more word 
might be received. 

I felt very much like laughing at my predicament, 
for I knew that it would not be very long before head¬ 
quarters would learn my history. 

In about an hour I was told that I might take the 
battalion chaplain’s billet and that I was to stay with 
the Seventy-fifth till orders would come. There had 
been some misdirection of orders. 


Chapter XXXVII 

Held For Orders 

I remained a week with the Seventy-fifth before any 
further orders came. The battalion was resting after 
the terrible fighting at Paschendale. After dinner in 
the evenings we would gather before the little open 
coal fire in our mess: the second in command, who was 
a lieutenant-colonel, the doctor, the quartermaster, 
transport officer, and chat pleasantly. They were very 
friendly, though at times experiences were related; I 
think, for no other end than — in the language of the 
army — to put my ‘ ‘ wind up. ’ ’ I tried not to let them 



THE RED VINEYARD 


101 


see liow well they were succeeding. I found the medi¬ 
cal officer, Dr. Hutchinson, to be the friendliest of the 
officers. He was an American, a young man with grey 
hair, whose home town was not very far from that 
of Irvin Cobb. The way he came to talk of Cobb was 
on account of one of his stories that he happened to 
be reading. I learned through the papers later on, 
that Dr. Hutchinson had won the Victoria Cross. 

There was another officer in the mess with which 
I was quartered, who kept us all in a continual state 
of anxiety. He was a light-hearted, merry, boyish 
fellow and just a wee bit reckless. It was on account 
of the cane he carried. Of course, all commissioned 
officers in the British army are supposed to carry a 
cane or a hunting crop, but not the kind of cane the 
young officer in question carried. The cane was in 
reality a miniature breech-loading shot-gun which took 
a very small cartridge of very small shot. He had al¬ 
ready wounded one man slightly. 

One day while taking a walk out through the country 
from Calonne-Ricouart I saw for the first time the 
transport section of a battalian of the French army. 
It was drawn up on the roadside, all the wagons, lim¬ 
bers, etc., were painted a grayish-blue color. The 
horses were busy with their nose-bags, and the soldiers, 
in blue uniform, were standing in little groups about 
limbers taking their dinner, which consisted of cold 
beef, white bread and red wine. They were all small 
men, most of them with long black, silky beards. They 
chatted among themselves, and all along the village 



102 


THE RED VINEYARD 


street French women and children looked ont from 
windows; I noticed tears in the eyes of some of the 
women. 

It was a scene that had been enacted many times 
in the history of France. It was very interesting to 
watch those blue-clad soldiers of the Old World stand¬ 
ing in small groups in the little lane. Perhaps, I 
thought, in the many wars of France there have been 
many such halts in this tiny village. 

I was walking along musing so, when for one reason 
or another I turned my eyes from the transport column 
and looked down the road. Coming towards me on 
horse-back was a trooper of the Canadian Light Horse. 
He was a large, clean-shaven man under his wide- 
brimmed hat. He sat with perfect ease in the saddle, 
and looked quietly over the French transport section 
as he went. There seemed to be some indefinable at¬ 
mosphere about the man that made one think of great, 
illimitable spaces, of unrestricted freedom of move¬ 
ment. A few seconds previous I had been thinking 
of the romance of old France, but I had not been pre¬ 
pared for this inset. A breath, strong and clear, of 
my homeland came to me, and I felt proud of my 
countryman. 

I used to say Mass every morning in the little church 
of the village, the pastor of which was a very delicate 
looking young French cure. Two black-bearded 
French soldier priests said Mass before me. Then at 
7:30, when the Masses were finished, the parish priest 
taught catechism to the children of his parish. Later, 
in many places where we came to rest, I saw early in 




THE RED VINEYARD 


103 


the morning little children assembled in their parish 
churches for catechism. 


Chapter XXXVIII 

The Front at Last 

I had been with the Seventy-fifth Battalion about 
six days when one evening the adjutant gave me a 
letter which contained orders to proceed the following 
morning to Camblain L’Abbey. It was well on towards 
evening when the large motor lorry, on the seat of 
which I sat next the driver, pulled into the village of 
Camblain L’Abbey. The old stone church stood on a 
hill, looking down over the town, and at the base of 
the hill in a long, level field stood row upon row of 
one-story Nissen huts, in which were the headquar¬ 
ters of different branches of service of the Canadian 
Corps. 

The lorry stopped at the end of a large plank walk, 
down which I was directed to walk till I should come 
to the headquarters of chaplain service. This did not 
take very long, for presently I was standing before 
one of the huts, on the door of which appeared the 
letters C. A. C. S. (Canadian Army Chaplain Service). 
I knocked on the door and stepped in. 

Three military chaplains were sitting in the office; 
one who bore the insignia of lieutenant colonel, was 
signing some papers for a young chaplain who was a 



104 


THE RED VINEYARD 


captain. The third chaplain, a major, sat in a far 
corner eating nnt-chocolate bars. I looked from one 
to another. I did not know any of them. I had been 
expecting to meet Father French, who was the senior 
Catholic chaplain of the Canadians in France. I 
made myself known, only to find that all the chap¬ 
lains were Anglicans, and that Father French was 
absent on duty and would not be home for two or three 
days. 

That night I dined with many of the staff officers 
of the Canadian Corps, and slept in the quaint little 
presbytery of the French cure on the hill. The fol¬ 
lowing evening towards sundown, in company with 
Lt. Colonel McGrear, chief chaplain for the Church of 
England, I went to Carency, where I became attached 
for quarters and rations to the Sixteenth Canadian 
Scottish, which was one of the battalions of the Third 
Canadian Infantry Brigade of which I was now R. C. 
chaplain. My other battalions were the Thirteenth, 
Fourteenth and Fifteenth. All, with the exception of 
the Fourteenth, were kilted battalions, and each one 
had its own band of bag-pipes. 

I was somewhat disappointed to find myself attached 
to the Sixteenth as the Catholic chaplain who had pre- 
ceeded me had been quartered with the Fourteenth in 
which was an average of four hundred Catholics; in 
the Sixteenth the average was about eighty. There 
was some military reason for my appointment, so all 
I could do was to obey orders. 

We left Camblain L’Abbey and the motor went quick¬ 
ly over the well-kept road. Soon the town, with all 



THE RED VINEYARD 


105 


the houses still intact, was left far behind, and present¬ 
ly, not far ahead, I saw a large sign-board attached 
to two posts about fifteen feet high. At the top, in 
large black block letters, were the words “Gas Alert,’’ 
and beneath were words to the effect that from now 
on all troops must wear their gas masks “at the alert.” 
This meant that instead of carrying the mask at the 
side, with the bag closed, it must be tied about the 
chest, with the bag open, so that in a moment the 
mask might be raised to the face. 

A little nervousness came over me, for now on all 
sides were signs of great devastation — broken and 
torn buildings, crumbled walls, fields deeply marked 
with shell-holes; and the road became rough, for it had 
been mended in many places after being rent by shells. 
Less traffic appeared along our way; everything seemed 
quiet. On our right, in the distance, I noticed what 
seemed to be a square forest of miniature trees, which, 
as we drew nearer, became regular in shape and equi¬ 
distant from one another. As we came still nearer 
I noticed low mounds, “row on row.” What had 
seemed to be trees were crosses — a great forest of 
little low crosses — and between the rows and rows of 
crosses were the long lines of “the little green tents 
where the soldiers sleep.” We passed two or three 
other military cemeteries, then the ruins of a small 
village or two, where many soldiers looked out from 
cellar windows or low huts built of pieces of broken 
stone and scraps of corrugated iron, with a piece of 
burlap hanging and weighted at the end for a door. 
Dug-outs were built into the hill that sloped up from 




106 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the roadside. The silence of the whole countryside 
seemed uncanny. We came up a little hill where, on 
our right a few hundred feet back from the road, were 
perhaps a dozen corrugated iron stables, open at the 
sides, but with a partition the whole length of the hut 
running through the middle. In the foreground was 
the basement of what had once been a long, narrow 
dwelling-house. Here we stopped, for we had come to 
headquarters of the Sixteenth Battalion, or, to give 
them their full name, the Sixteenth Canadian Scottish. 
They were a kilted battalion, hailing from British Co¬ 
lumbia. 

The colonel told me to remain in the motor till he 
returned from the orderly room, which I did. In a 
few minutes he came back with the adjutant and two 
soldiers. The adjutant welcomed me kindly; the two 
soldiers picked up my bed-roll and began to carry it 
towards headquarters. I shook hands with the colonel 
as he said good-bye. Then I accompanied the adjutant 
to headquarters. I had arrived at the Western Front. 


Chapter XXXIX 

A Strafe and a Quartet 

My room was a partitioned off portion at the end of 
the cellar in which was headquarters: there was no 
fire in it and the month was December. Through 



107 


THE RED VINEYARD 


cracks in the portion of the building that was above 
ground, blew the cold, wintry wind. 

That night at dinner in “the mess,” which was in 
the portion of the cellar adjoining my billet, I met a 
number of the officers — though the majority were still 
in the line — and they were among the finest men I 
had ever met. The commanding officer, Colonel Peck, 
one of the best-loved men on the Western Front, was 
a huge man with a black drooping mustache which 
gave him a rather fierce appearance, but there was a 
look of real kindness in his eyes. He possessed the Dis¬ 
tinguished Service Order Medal, and later he won 
the highest decoration of the British army, the Vic¬ 
toria Cross. At that time, although we did not know 
it till later, he had been elected a member of the Cana¬ 
dian parliament. 

When I returned to my billet I found a lighted candle 
sticking to the bottom of an upturned condensed milk 
tin; some one had been showing me an act of kindness. 
I had no sooner entered than there was a knock on the 
door. A young soldier opened it and came in. He 
said he had come to open my bed-roll and prepare my 
bed. I looked at the berth, which was a piece of scant¬ 
ling about seven feet long running the width of the 
room, to which was attached two thicknesses of burlap 
about a yard wide that were fixed to the wall. I won¬ 
dered how I was going to sleep, for I was shivering 
then. Suddenly the young soldier ceased tugging at 
the straps, listened quietly for a second or two, then 
not looking at me, but keeping his eye fixed on the 




108 


THE RED VINEYARD 


bed-roll, he said slowly and solemnly, as if addressing 
some imaginary person in the bed-roll: “All is quiet 
on the Western Front.” 

He neither smiled nor looked at me, but continued 
his work. 

For months I had read those words in the daily 
papers of England; but now there was something so 
comical in the lad’s manner of saying them that I could 
not help laughing as he went on with his unpacking. 

But it was not for long that “all was quiet on the 
Western Front.” Suddenly I heard a far-distant rum¬ 
ble which had the rhythmic roll of snare-drums, yet the 
sound was much stronger and it was increasing quickly 
in intensity and volume. Soon it was a great thun¬ 
dering roar with a minor rattle. The earth seemed to 
be trembling. 

I looked at the soldier. “A bombardment?” I ques¬ 
tioned. 

“No, sir,” he said quietly, “that’s just a strafe over 
on the LaBassee front. Those are our guns. Fritzy’ll 
open up after they stop. You should go outside and 
see it, sir.” 

I stepped out, almost falling into a trench that was 
just outside my door. Away to the northeast for about 
a mile flitted short, sharp yellow flashes of light. Al¬ 
though the rumbling of the guns was so loud, I judged 
them to be five or six miles distant. Everything was 
quiet about where I stood. It was a moonlight night 
and along the white road, as far as I could see, was a 
line of broken trees, with here and there the irregular 
walls of a ruined village. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


109 


Presently there was a lull, then complete silence; 
in the clear moonlight, the devastated countryside gave 
one a weird impression. Then “old Fritzy opened 
up,” and although the rumble of his guns was not 
so distinct, I judged that he was giving us about as 
much as we had given him. I wondered how much 
harm would be done, and whether many of our lads 
would be killed. Then slowly the firing ceased and 
presently again “all was quiet on the Western Front.” 

I was just about to reenter my quarters when I re¬ 
ceived another surprise. From a hut just a few yards 
away came sounds of singing. I listened: it was a low, 
sweet song that I had never heard before — a quartet, 
and the harmony seemed perfect. I had never before 
heard such sweet singing. An officer came out of the 
mess and stood near me, listening in silence. Then he 
said: “That’s pretty good, Padre.” I agreed with 
him, but I confessed I had never heard the song before. 

“Why, Padre,” he said, “the name of that song is 
* Sweet Genevieve’. Strange you never heard it! 
Wherever men are congregated one will hear that 
song. It’s an old song, Padre. Strange you never 
heard it!” 

So I had heard two sounds that I had never before 
heard: one was the sound of a “strafe” on the West¬ 
ern Front; the other was the singing of “Sweet Gene- 


vieve. 



110 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter XL 

The Valley of the Dead 

When I reentered my hut I found that the young 
soldier had opened my bed-roll and removed the few 
little articles that were in it. The bed-roll was ar¬ 
ranged for the night on the burlap berth. 

“You haven’t enough blankets, sir,” he said. Then 
he was gone; but in about five minutes he was back 
again with two thick brown army blankets. After I 
had thanked him, he looked around to see if he could 
improve anything before leaving for the night. Not 
seeing anything, he was just about to open the door 
when he turned and said: “If old Fritz comes over to 
bomb us tonight, sir, the safest place for you will be 
down in the trench. It’s a moonlight night and Fritzy 
likes to be out in the moonlight.” 

There was no bombing that night, but it was so ex¬ 
tremely cold that I could not sleep. I spent the night 
changing from one position to another in the hope of 
getting warm, but I remained awake till daylight. 

About seven o’clock the following morning I heard 
a fumbling at the latch of my door. I had just fin¬ 
ished my prayers. I waited, for I knew the door was 
not locked; then as the latch was raised the door 
opened, assisted by the foot of the one entering. First 
there appeared a large granite iron plate of steaming 
porridge and a smoky hand holding it, then a granite 
iron mug of something steaming, and another smoky 
hand holding it. Then appeared the kindly soldier of 



THE RED VINEYARD 


111 


the night before, his pleasant face a little begrimed, 
but smiling, the arm of the hand which held the mug 
hugging to his side a small earthen jar of sugar with 
a spoon in it. I went to his assistance and soon we had 
the things spread out on an upturned ration box which 
had been the seat. Now it was the table, and the bed 
was my seat. 

“How did you sleep, sir?” asked the soldier. I told 
him. Then he said he must try to find something to 
make a stove. He went on to tell me that he and the 
cook had built one, but that it was not working well. 
He held up his hands as evidence, and I looked at his 
face. “The cook is out there now,” he said, “trying 
to cook the breakfast, and swearing, for there’s more 
smoke coming out around the stove than there is go¬ 
ing up the chimney.” 

I poured from the earthen mug a little of the hot 
diluted condensed milk over the steaming porridge, 
and the soldier told me to take all the sugar I wanted 
as there was plenty. He stood beside me for a while 
waiting to see if I would make any comment on the 
porridge. I had never been in the habit of eating any 
cereal at breakfast, but this morning I was very cold 
and also very hungry. I tasted the porridge; it was 
hot, piping hot. It tasted slightly of smoke, but that 
didn’t matter. “It’s fine,” I said. 

“Not smoky?” he asked. 

I assured him that if it was a little bit smoky it made 
no difference. He went out again; but I had not quite 
finished the porridge before I heard another fumbling 
at the latch, and in a moment he appeared again with 



112 


THE RED VINEYARD 


another granite iron plate on which were two rashers 
of bacon and a large slice of toast; in the other hand 
was a large mug of hot tea. 

“Is this dinner?” I asked. 

The lad smilingly told me to eat all I could, that 
when a man loses sleep the best way to make up for it 
is by a good meal. He picked up the empty porridge 
plate and the empty mug, leaving the sugar-bowl, and 
went out again; but in about three minutes he was 
back with a jar of compound jam, strawberry and 
gooseberry. 

“Has the cook stopped swearing yet?” I asked. 

“Yes,” replied the lad, “I told him you said the 
porridge was good. He knew it wasn’t, and when he 
saw your empty plate he smiled. He’ll be all right 
now for awhile.” 

“What is the name of this place?” I asked. 

“Carency,” he replied, “in the Souchez Valley. Just 
across the road, on the other side of the valley, is 
where the sixty thousand French soldiers and civilians 
were gassed. Their own turpinide gas that they had 
sent over against the Germans came back on them. The 
wind had changed. There are some of the victims in 
the wood that have never been buried. The valley is 
called Valley of the Dead.” 

He went on to tell me of the great battles that had 
already been fought in the area where we now were. 
I learned that we were almost at the base of Vimv 
Ridge. 

“What is the difference between a ‘strafe’ and a 
‘bombardment?’ ” I asked him. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


113 


“Well,” he said, “a bombardment is usually all 
thought out beforehand and a lot of preparations are 
made for it and it usually lasts a long time. A ‘ strafe’ 
is just a firing that might start up any time, and it 
generally lasts only a few minutes. Sometimes a green 
hand in the line brings off a ‘strafe’ that might last 
half an hour with the loss of many lives and the cost 
of thousands of dollars. The first night in the line 
every minute or two some fellow thinks he sees some¬ 
one coming across ‘No Man’s Land’ and sometimes 
he ‘gets the wind up’ pretty bad and fires. Then old 
Fritz thinks some one is coming towards him and he 
fires back; then two or three of our fellows answer, 
and immediately old Fritz comes back stronger. Then 
the whole line opens up and the machine guns begin 
to rat-tat-tat, and an S. 0. S. flare goes up for the 
artillery, and presently the earth is rocking under a 
‘strafe’ and everybody except one wonders who started 
it all.” 

As the lad then began to gather up the empty dishes, 
I made apologies for having eaten so much; always 
my breakfast had been just a little bread and jam. 
His only comment was, “Sorry, sir, I didn’t have a 
couple of eggs for you.” 

Long after he went out I kept thinking of the hor¬ 
rors of war; what catastrophes might transpire through 
the changing of the wind or through “getting the 
wind up.” 

After I had returned home from the war I was 
giving a series of lectures in a little town. In one of 
them I happened to mention the terrible tragedy of 



114 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the turpenide gas. Many among my audience found 
it hard to believe that there had been so many vic¬ 
tims. The following day the priest with whom I was 
staying asked me many questions about the Valley of 
the Dead. A day or two later, as we were sitting 
in his office, one of his parishioners came in on some 
business. I was about to leave the room when the 
priest motioned me to stay. 

When the man had finished his business, he looked 
at me and said: “So you have been to the war, 
Father ? ’ ’ 

I said I had been there. 

“Well,” continued the man, who had come a long 
distance, “I met a lad who was through it all, and he 
told me he found the gas worse than anything. He 
said he was in a place, one time, where thousands and 
thousands had been froze stiff by a strange kind of gas. 
He said that there was a church there, filled with 
people sitting in the pews, and the windows were all 
up, and this gas came right in through the windows 
and froze all the people in the pews. They’re all there 
yet, and if you pay a quarter you can see them.” 

The man was most serious. I did not dare look at 
the priest till he had gone. For a moment the priest 
shook with laughter, then he said to me: “Father, 
send for that returned man and make him your assist¬ 
ant. He can tell the story much better than you.” 

“Well,” I said, “considering that it was France, they 
might have made the admission fee one franc instead 
of a quarter.” 

However, my story had not been exaggerated. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


115 


Chapter XLI 

New Friends 

Shortly after the young soldier left there was an¬ 
other knock on my door, and as I stood up to go to 
open it I heard outside the voice of a man speaking 
as if to a child. When I opened the door, there stood 
a kilted officer over six feet in height, with the pleas¬ 
ant face of a boy. He was accompanied by a billy- 
goat, the mascot of the battalion. The officer greeted 
me warmly and then looked at the goat, saying: 
“Shake hands, Billy, shake hands with the new 
Padre.” So Billy and I shook hands, or rather, I 
shook Billy’s raised hoof. 

In the afternoon I took a walk along the Valley of 
the Dead. Away in the distance I noticed a large 
balloon far up in the air and, seemingly, two men 
standing in the large basket attached to it. It was 
the first time I had ever seen a balloon and I was a 
little surprised to find that it was not round, but 
shaped like a sausage. It was a greyish-khaki color. 

The sun was just setting far away behind the broken 
trees when I walked back from Neuville St. Vaast; the 
sky was pink with here and there a pencil of red clouds. 
Along the sky-line flew three homing airplanes. As I 
turned to see if any more planes were coming, I no¬ 
ticed the large balloon being hauled slowly down to¬ 
wards the earth. 

When I entered my little billet, I found the young 
soldier at work putting up a stove that he had found 



116 


THE RED VINEYARD 


and patched with a piece of tin. I asked him what the 
great balloon was doing up in the air. He told me 
that it was an observation balloon, and that the two 
men in the aerial car were observing with field-glasses 
what was going on behind Fritz’s line. The airplanes 
that I had seen wending their way against the winter 
skyline were scout planes that had been patrolling the 
sky for hours. “Now,” he said, “they are going 
home to roost.” 

Before the stove was finished the Third Brigade in¬ 
terpreter— the men always called the interpreter “the 
interrupter” — came to visit me. He was the first 
Catholic I had met since coming to the Sixteenth. He 
seemed very friendly and kind. The badge of his 
office was a sphinx. It was Napoleon who designed 
this badge for interpreters — I suppose to remind them 
that although they would learn much that was occur¬ 
ring, it was part of their office not to divulge it. The 
interpreter’s work was made very hard at times by the 
good peasants of France. Sometimes, while marching 
through a rich farmland, a soldier lad would “annex” 
a hen, or a head of cabbage, or some grapes, or apples, 
etc.; then the irate owner would seek the interpreter 
and oblige him to conduct him or her before the pro¬ 
per military authorities, where compensation would be 
demanded from the government. 

The cook also came in to see me; he, too, was a 
Catholic and seemed to be a lad full of energy. I was 
surprised to learn that in private life he was a tailor. 
Before he left, he made arrangements for going to 
confession. Then, by some strange association of ideas, 




THE RED VINEYARD 


117 


I asked him if his stove still smoked. It was going 
much better now, he said. 

That evening after dinner as I sat wiping my eyes 
with my handkerchief, when it was not being applied 
to my nose — for besides giving real warmth, the new 
stove emitted a quantity of smoke — an officer knocked 
and came in, followed by two soldiers carrying his 
bed-roll. I had been expecting him, for in the mess 
just before dinner I had heard the officers planning the 
allotment of sleeping space for the night. A number 
had been sleeping in their bed-rolls on the floor of the 
mess; and now two or three other officers were coming 
back from leave. I had heard an officer say: “We’ll 
put ‘Wild Bill’ with the Padre.” The others had 
agreed to this. 

I had been wondering who “Wild Bill” was. I 
did not think the officers were playing a practical joke 
on me, for I had always found officers most respectful 
to the priesthood. But now “Wild Bill” had entered, 
and as I looked through the slight smoke-screen, my 
eyes rested on one of the gentlest-mannered men I have 
ever met. Without being in the least effeminate, he 
came quietly over and shook hands. I understood 
now why they called him “Wild Bill” for I recalled 
that at college one of the slowest moving lads I had 
ever met, had been rechristened “Lightning.” I felt 
grateful to the other officers who had billeted “Wild 
Bill” with me. 

He slept in his bed-roll on the floor, after he had 
spread a rubber ground sheet over it. Gradually the 
room became sufficiently warm to sleep in. The soldier 



118 


THE RED VINEYARD 


had found some coal. And as the smoke died away 
I fell asleep and did not awake until morning. 


Chapter XLII 

A Little Burlap Room 

The following day was Saturday and I began to 
think of my duties for the morrow. I had learned that 
the Thirteenth, Fifteenth and Sixteenth battalions 
would remain in the trenches till Monday. I called at 
the orderly room of the Fourteenth only to learn that 
they would be moving Sunday. When I returned to 
my billet I found a letter from Father MacDonnell, 
telling me to call to see him at the Transport Section 
of the Seventy-second Battalion. I did, and found a 
little man, dressed in Scotch military costume — tar¬ 
tan riding breeches, round-cornered khaki tunic and 
glengarry cap. The Seventy-second was a Scotch bat¬ 
talion from Canada, but its chaplain was a Canadian 
from Scotland. He had been a member of the Bene¬ 
dictine Monastery, at Fort Augustus, Scotland. He 
was then busy composing a little work on the Holy 
Name, for he was anxious to establish the Holy Name 
Society among not only the Catholic soldiers, but also 
all other denominations. This was accomplished later 
with the co-operation of the general commanding offi¬ 
cer of the Canadian Corps, Sir Arthur Currie. He 
was not a young man: his hair was beginning to turn 




THE RED VINEYARD 


119 


grey. I took him to be about fifty years old. He 
wished me to work with him on Sunday. This I did, 
saying Mass in a large Y. M. C. A. tent, while he said 
Mass some distance farther down the valley. I did 
not have many at Mass, but a good number came to 
Communion. Most of the men were in the trenches. 

In the afternoon, towards three o’clock, I heard the 
inspiring strains of a military march coming up the 
Valley of Death. I knew the march well. It was “The 
Great Little Army,” one of the most popular marches 
on the Western Front. I stepped outside and looked 
down the valley. A battalion of infantry was march¬ 
ing back from the line. 

“It’s the Fourteenth,” said a young soldier standing 
nearby. 

I watched them carefully. The Fourteenth was one 
of my battalions. I had heard of it before; it had been 
the sacrificed battalion in one of the big battles. The 
men had advanced without support in order to give 
the enemy the impression that we were stronger than 
we really were. They had suffered terrible casualties, 
but their manoeuvre had met with great success. I 
watched them till they disappeared round a turn in 
the road — Hospital Corner, I think it was called — 
and still I stood listening to the band. Very likely I 
would meet these lads on Christmas Day — which 
meant within the week. 

I had no sooner returned to my “room” when the 
young soldier who had been so thoughtful of my in¬ 
terests came in. “Sir,” he said, “the colonel and all 
the headquarters’ officers have gone to Chateau de la 



120 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Haie; the battalion is going there tomorrow. I think 
you should take the coloners room before any one else 
gets it.” 

In ten minutes all my belongings were in the room 
just vacated by the colonel. It was a warm room com¬ 
pletely lined with burlap: ceiling, walls and floor were 
covered with it. There was a small burlap-covered 
table and a low bench, about three feet long, also with 
a covering of burlap, but above all else, there was a 
tiny stove with two doors that slid back so that one 
could see the fire burning in it. Since then I have been 
in very much worse quarters on the Western Front. 

The following morning I said Mass on the little table, 
and the cook, who had now only four officers to pro¬ 
vide for, came to Holy Communion. The next morning 
the interpreter, with a young soldier who was being 
called home to Halifax to care for his wife and child 
who had just passed through the terrible disaster, knelt 
reverently in the little burlap room to receive their 
Lord. 


Chapter XLIII 

Christmas at the Front 

We had planned to have midnight Mass in one of 
the large moving-picture huts at Chateau de la Haie, 
for here in reserve were four full battalions: one be¬ 
longing to Father MacDonnell, one to Father Murray, 



THE RED VINEYARD 


121 


a young chaplain whom I met just before Christmas, 
and two, the Fourteenth and Sixteenth, belonging to 
me. My other battalions were only about two miles 
beyond these, the Thirteenth at Petit Servans and the 
Fifteenth at Grand Servans. But First Divisional 
Headquarters, which was then at Chateau de la Haie, 
reconsidered the matter. They thought the Catholic 
soldiers coming in at such an early hour might disturb 
others who would wish to sleep; and, also, that there 
might be too many lights used, so that some aerial 
Santa Claus from across the line might wing his way 
above the camp, dropping a few Christmas bombs in 
passing. We then decided to have two Masses in the 
large hut at Chateau de la Haie and one in the church 
at Petit Servans. Fathers Murray and MacDonnell 
were to say the Masses at Chateau de la Haie and I 
was to go to Petit Servans. 

I found that not only had I to notify the men of my 
own battalions, but also all the units in my area. As 
there were about ten other units — labor groups, engi¬ 
neers, divisional trains, etc. — this took me quite a 
while. In fact, it took all Monday afternoon. But the 
following morning, which was Christmas, when I 
turned around after the gospel to say a few words to 
the lads, I felt more than repaid for any inconvenience, 
including my four mile walk from Carency to Petit 
Servans before Mass, for the church was filled. All 
the seats were occupied and the large space in the 
rear was packed with standing soldiers — kilted lad¬ 
dies from the Thirteenth and Fifteenth, with their offi¬ 
cers ; soldiers from the engineers; members of the labor 




122 


THE RED VINEYARD 


groups; stretcher-bearers from the First Field Ambu¬ 
lance. With a full heart I thanked the Christ Child 
for bringing together all my Catholic men. It was the 
first time in four months that I had been able to as¬ 
semble such a large number. At the hospital, natural¬ 
ly, the groups were small. And as I looked at the sea 
of faces, so reverently attentive, many bearing marks 
of the terrible conflicts through which they had passed, 
I felt a twitching at the throat, so that it was a few 
seconds before I could begin to speak. 

It was a long while that Christmas Day before 1 
finished giving Holy Communion, for nearly all the 
men in the church came. 

On my way home I learned from Father Murray that 
the Fourteenth and Sixteenth had attended Mass in a 
body in the moving-picture hut at Chateau de la Haie, 
and that great numbers had gone to Holy Communion. 

My Christmas dinner was a piece of dry roast beef, 
almost burnt, some potatoes, bread and margarine, with 
a little apricot jam and a cup of tea; that was all. 
Yet I think it was the happiest Christmas I ever spent, 
for, as I thought of that first wonderful meeting with 
those Canadian Catholic soldiers on the Western Front, 
I felt that in their midst those words, written so long 
ago, “There was no room in the inn,” could not be 
said that Christmas Day. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


123 


Chapter XLIY 

Back to Rest 

Every morning for a week or two I was in the little 
church where I had said Mass on Christmas Day, and 
every evening while I was there men came to confes¬ 
sion. Then one morning the young soldier who had 
been so attentive to my wants, and whose name I had 
learned was George, came into the burlap room in a 
state of evident excitement and said: “We’re going 
back to rest, sir.” 

I did not know exactly what “back to rest” really 
meant, but I judged from George’s sparkling eyes 
that it was something very good. “That’s good news,” 
I said. But one had to be a soldier of the line to rea¬ 
lize what good news it really was. One must be actu¬ 
ally in the trenches when the word comes to compre¬ 
hend fully what those words “back to rest” mean. 

“We’re going back to rest, chummy,” somebody 
says, and the word is relayed quickly down the front 
line trench. And tired-faced lads, many of them with 
faint, dark rings around their eyes, smile broadly as 
they stand half-crouching in the muddy trench. On¬ 
ward the glad tidings go, whispered or uttered in low 
voices: “Out to rest, Bo; the relief’s coming in to¬ 
night at half past ten. Hooray!” But the “hooray” 
does not express adequately the feelings of the speaker. 
It must do, however, as a loud cheer is not permitted 
in the front line trench. 

When it is dark, the relief comes in very quietly 



124 


THE RED VINEYARD 


and takes over the different posts; then, as quietly, the 
lads go down the support trenches till they slope up to 
the great wide road that seems so spacious and airy 
after the deep, narrow trench they have been standing 
in for days. On they go, past long rows of broken trees 
that once were majestic, full-leafed elms, then through 
masses of ruined buildings and broken stone walls, 
with here and there a small corrugated iron hut or 
shack, built just lately. At times, not very far away, 
a long yellow flash, followed by a thundering report, 
tells them that our heavies are at work. 

Somebody begins to whistle, “There’s a long, long 
trail a-winding,” or “Over There,” then others catch 
the lilt, and in a few seconds hundreds are whistling 
to the swinging, sweeping thud of marching feet. When 
they get a little farther on their way, the whistling 
ceases and a song is struck up, though not too loudly. 
Above them are the silent stars peacefully shining. 
Away behind them shrapnel bursts savagely and 
sprinkles its death-bearing message. But that is far 
behind, and now they are going out — out to rest! 

Perhaps they march all through the night, carrying 
their equipment and their heavy packs on their backs, 
and as the dawn comes, they notice at every cross-road 
a great cross, and nailed to the cross the figure of the 
Crucified — white, blood-streaked, the thorn-crowned 
head bent in the agony of suffering, the face livid with 
pain and misery. And many a lad under his weight 
looks up. He understands it all much better now than 
when he first came to the front. Some breathe a little 



THE RED VINEYARD 


125 


prayer. They are going out to rest — but they will be 
coming back again! 

They continue their march till the morning sunlight 
begins to brighten all the land and the roar of the guns 
has become but a faint distant rumble, then, perhaps, 
they sit on the roadside, or along the edge of a field, 
the grass of which looks so fresh and green after the 
rolling, shell-torn No Man’s Land they have been look¬ 
ing over for days, where never a blade of grass could 
be seen; only the grey shell-pitted earth, with here and 
there a line of white chalk which made one think of a 
white-capped, angry sea. Birds begin to sing in field 
and green wood, and from many field kitchens and little 
red fires built on the roadside comes the odor of frying 
bacon. 

Some of the lads take off their packs and go to sleep 
on the roadside, their faces grey with the dust from 
marching feet. Much traffic goes by — khaki motor 
lorries, general service wagons, dispatch riders on 
motorcycles. Then from the distance come the strains 
of a military march played by a brass band that is ap¬ 
proaching; it may be “Colonel Bogey” that they play, 
or “Sons of the Brave,” etc. It is the band of the bat¬ 
talion coming to meet the lads and play them back to 
rest. 

When everyone has eaten his bread and bacon and 
has finished his pint of hot tea, they fall in, feeling- 
much refreshed. Then there is a rumble from the big 
drum and a rattle from the smaller ones and the in¬ 
spiring music of a military march breaks on the air. 
The lads straighten momentarily under their packs, 




126 


THE RED VINEYARD 


and there is a new swing to their tired feet. Perhaps 
they pass through many fields lined with tall elms. 
Perhaps they pass many French peasants, old and 
young, going to work in the fields, who smile pleasant¬ 
ly. They may go through a quiet little village or two 
till they come to a more flourishing one in which is a 
large chateau. Then the band, which for the last 
fifteen minutes has given place to a few buglers and 
drums, strikes up the battalion’s own march and the 
order comes ringing down the line, “March to atten¬ 
tion.” Then the tired lads know that they are com¬ 
ing into rest billets. 

The organization in “rest” is done very quickly. 
One battalion takes over from another, and in a very 
short time enamel signs are hung out of billets which 
tell where are the different officers and orderly rooms. 
If there is a cure in the village, and if it so happens 
that the Catholic chaplain of the brigade is quartered 
with the battalion that has come to rest here, a little 
sign hangs from the cure’s gate, bearing the words 
“R. C. Chaplain,” for the soldiers’ priest is nearly 
always billeted with the parish priest of the village; 
and on the church door a paper is tacked giving the 
hours of Mass, confession, etc. 

Sometimes there is no cure in the village; perhaps 
he has been called to join the soldiers of France; per¬ 
haps at one time the village has been heavily shelled 
and he has followed his people. In this case, often it 
is necessary to renovate the little shell-torn church, 
but this is quickly done. And in the morning, after 
Mass has been said, a tiny lamp burns in the church 



THE RED VINEYARD 


127 


which tells the soldiers that the Master has come and 
is calling them. 

At twelve o'clock the soldiers’ work for the day, 
when they are out in rest, usually finishes, and they 
receive any papers and magazines that may have come 
to them from friends across the sea. These are very 
welcome arrivals, and so are the boxes of good things 
that sometimes come from home. Then, as the lads 
sit under trees, or in front of tents, or in low hay lofts 
to eat their dinner, papers are opened and those who 
have received boxes or parcels from home pass around 
candies, cake, etc., to those who have not, and so a 
very pleasant hour passes. 

The afternoon is usually given over to games and 
athletic sports. If different troops happen to be quar¬ 
tered together in the same village the competition be¬ 
tween the two becomes very interesting. Perhaps a 
baseball game is arranged between American and 
Canadian lads, while English lads look on, it must be 
admitted, with irritation. They cannot understand 
why one side should shout such things at the other; 
why they should try to rattle the pitcher. To them it 
seems quite abusive, and judging from their talk, they 
are disgusted. “Call that a gaime,” one will say, 
“when one side keeps on ’ollerin’ at the blighter bowl¬ 
in’ that ball, so’s ’e caunt throw well?” “Call that 
sport?” “Call that fair ply?” “I carn’t see where 
the fair ply comes hin when they tike such bloomin’ 
hunderanded wys o’ tryin’ to win.” His mate agrees 
with him, and presently they move off to some other 
scene of amusement. Meanwhile, little French boys 




128 


THE RED VINEYARD 


who have come to watch the baseball game go racing 
about the field, imitating some of the plays in the game 
which is so strange to them, and as they go sliding to 
some imaginary home-plate, one can hear such expres¬ 
sions as “Safe!” and “Hat a-boy. ” 

It was early in the morning when we left Chateau 
de la Haie, for we were not under observation and it 
was not necessary to move by night. We assembled 
on one of the squares near a long, tree-fringed avenue 
which was one of the approaches to the chateau. For 
some time before we fell in I heard from all quarters 
strange, unearthly noises, and in every direction I 
turned I saw, at quite a distance from each other, kilt¬ 
ed figures walking up and down bearing their wide- 
branched bag-pipes, each one emitting the weirdest 
wails imaginable; they were the pipers of the Sixteenth 
pipe band tuning up. However, when we started off 
the sound was quite different, for the pipes and kettle¬ 
drums make merry marching music. I know of no 
other music that can make tired men march so briskly 
and with such a swing as that of the pipes. I had 
never before marched with any unit which seemed to 
draw such universal attention as did the Sixteenth 
Canadian Scottish Battalion, and I think it was owing 
chiefly to the strange music of the pipes and the un¬ 
common uniform of the kilted laddies. For as we en¬ 
tered village after village, doors and windows began to 
open, and old and young and middle aged French peas¬ 
ants quickly filled them, smiling their admiration as 
the pipers played and the soldiers marched. Little 
“gamins,” not content with regarding us, followed 




THE RED VINEYARD 


129 


along at a trot, singing and cheering; the more enter¬ 
prising among them, picking np a block of wood and 
an old ration sack and, tucking them under their left 
arm while they spread out three or four pieces of sap¬ 
ling or old laths, gave an imitation of our brave pipers 
who played so valiantly. I began to think, after all, 
there might be some truth in the story of the Pied 
Piper of Hamlin. 


Chapter XLV 

Bruay 

Our destination was Bruay, a mining town of about 
twelve thousand souls in the department of Calais, 
or, as the French write it, “Pas de Calais.’’ We 
marched into the town at about two o’clock and fell 
out at the square. 

My billet was in a miner’s house. It was a very 
nice room with a stove in it, and as there was a coal 
mine just across the road, I did not want for fuel. 
The transport mess, which was composed of the trans¬ 
port officer, quartermaster, paymaster and chaplain, 
was billeted in a large house not very far away. We 
had a diningroom all to ourselves, but our cook oper¬ 
ated on the same stove as did old Madame, who was 
the head of the house. 

We were obliged to pass through the kitchen on our 
way to the dining-room, and I found it a very pleasant 



130 


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passageway, especially in the evening, for then it was 
crowded with happy faces. Old Madame and our cook 
both moved about the glowing stove where numerous 
pots and saucepans, boilers and frying pans, hissed and 
bubbled and sizzled, chatting away as they worked; 
for our cook was a French Canadian. Four or five 
soldiers sat about in the dim lamplight and numerous 
children played up and down. Two young French 
boys, one about sixteen, the other fourteen, snow-white 
from head to foot, were often there; for old Madame 
had quite a large bakery on the premises, and these 
two lads, together with an old man whom we seldom 
saw, did the baking. Now and again we saw two 
women, the mothers of the children, who attended the 
bake-shop, which was in the front of the house. 

I asked George one day how the cook liked his stove. 
I learned that he liked it very much, but that he had 
his own little troubles, sometimes. When he would 
have some deep red coals just ready for making toast, 
old Madame would inadvertently throw a shovelful of 
fuel on the fire; or, sometimes, when the water in the 
kettle had just come to the boiling point and the cook 
was just about to make some tea, Madame would judge 
that the kettle needed replenishing and would immed¬ 
iately pour in about a pint of cold water; or, some¬ 
times, a saucepan or some dish that needed quick 
cooking was moved by Madame from the front to the 
rear of the stove. “He finds it a. little exasperating 
at times,” said George, “but he’s delighted with the 
billet.” 

We passed a very pleasant time in rest billets. Every 



THE RED VINEYARD 


131 


morning we were awakened by the pipe band play¬ 
ing up and down the streets of Bruay. The tune they 
played was that of an old Scotch song, “Hi Jonny 
Coup are ye sleepin’ yet.” I said Mass in the ancient 
church of the town, and while I did so the old cure 
taught catechism to a large number of children. While 
I made my thanksgiving a soldier-priest from one of 
the ambulances said his Mass. He wore a mustache, 
but no beard, as did many of the French soldier-priests. 
It seemed strange to see a priest, robed in the vest¬ 
ments of Mass, wearing a black mustache. 

There was an Irish chaplain at No. 22 hospital, and 
I arranged with him to say Mass for the Thirteenth 
and Sixteenth at Bruay the following Sunday, while 
I went to Houdain to say Mass for the Fourteenth and 
Fifteenth and some details which were quartered there. 
The church at Houdain was a beautiful old stone struct¬ 
ure built on the crest of a very high hill that over¬ 
looked the town. A long road zigzagged up the hill, 
breaking the steep ascent. The first time I went to 
the church the old cure, a large red-cheeked man, 
pointed out the different villages far over the country¬ 
side. In one, the village of Amette, he told me St. 
Benedict Joseph Labre had been born, and in another 
— I think it was Cauchy — General Petain, of the 
French army. I was interested to learn that I was so 
near the birthplace of St. Benedict Joseph Labre, since 
my parents had given to me the same names, Benedict 
Joseph. 

I had a large crowd at Mass, and for the first time 
I had the pleasure of seeing the Fourteenth Battalion 



132 


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on church parade. They were a fine crowd of lads; 
many came to confession that day. Every evening 
from five till six I was on duty either at Bruay or 
Houdain, so that any one who wished to come to con¬ 
fession might have the opportunity. 

I remember one evening at Bruay, while awaiting 
the arrival of a soldier whom I was going to baptize 
and make a child of God, seeing a little girl with a 
shawl thrown over her head praying before a statue; 
near her, on the floor, was a bag made of some netted 
material with quite a large mesh. In the bag were 
two large rolls of French bread, and of course through 
the mesh the bread touched the floor; but the child 
paid no attention to this. She was rapt in prayer. I 
could not help looking at her from time to time, she 
reminded me so much of the pictures of little Berna¬ 
dette that were so common in France — except for 
the two rolls of bread lying nearby in the dust. The 
little one prayed for nearly an hour, and I don’t think 
she turned her head once — not even to look at the 
bread! 


Chapter XLYI 

Fosse-Dix 

We were in rest nearly two weeks when orders came 
to go back again to the line. We left one morning 
immediately after breakfast and were reviewed on 



THE RED VINEYARD 


133 


the march by General Sir Arthur Currie, commander 
of the Canadians. Along the way we were greeted by 
the same outspoken admiration as on our passing out. 
On a veranda in front of a little estaminet an old 
Frenchman, wearing the glazed, peaked yachting cap 
which was the most common head-gear among men 
in this part of France, tried to dance the “Highland 
Fling,” to the great amusement of half the people in 
the little street and the voiced encouragement of the 
passing soldiers. 

Fosse-dix was a very small village; it cannot be 
found on the map, but Sains-en-Gohelle can be seen, 
of which Fosse-dix was a suburb. We were to wait 
here a few days in reserve before going into the trench¬ 
es; the Fifteenth and Sixteenth were here and the 
Thirteenth and Fourteenth at Bully-Grenay. I was 
billeted with the cure at Fosse-dix and I found him 
a very pleasant little man and one of the most zeal¬ 
ous priests I have ever met. From three neighboring 
parishes the pastors had been called to the colors; so 
this little priest, who was none too robust — other¬ 
wise, he, too, would have been called — tried to at¬ 
tend the shepherdless flocks, and succeeded remark¬ 
ably well. 

It was a mining district we were in: all over the 
countryside could be seen the high smoke-stacks of 
the blast furnaces. This was the part of France said 
to contain the most natural wealth, and the Canadians 
were proud that they had been chosen to defend it. 

On Sunday I was to say two Masses: one at Fosse- 
dix at nine o’clock, the other at Bully-Grenay at ten- 



134 


THE RED VINEYARD 


thirty. So on Saturday I went around to arrange for 
these, taking nearly the whole day to visit the different 
units in the area. Bully-Grenay, unlike Fosse-dix, had 
been almost totally demolished by shell-fire. The 
church had been damaged in places, though not too 
seriously; but when I came in sight of the cure’s house 
my heart turned sick. Nearly the whole of the second 
story had been blown off, but the brave old priest 
still lived in the lower story. I picked my way through 
little piles of broken stone and plaster, with a few 
pieces of splintered wood amongst the debris. I 
knocked at the door and the old pastor himself opened 
it. He was a stout, white-haired, kind-faced man who 
smiled brightly as he shook my hand. “Ah,” he said, 
“I have not seen you before! You are a new arrival. 
Is it not so?” 

I assured him that I had just lately come to the 
Third Brigade, but that I had been on active service 
in France since early in the past summer. “Ah,” he 
said again, and he stood back and looked me over from 
head to muddy boots. Then he called his old house¬ 
keeper, and when she had come he said: “He has but 
just lately come,” and the old housekeeper looked at 
me quietly and smiled in a motherly way, then she 
went to prepare a bowl of hot coffee for the “newly 
arrived.” 

As the old cure and I sipped the black coffee, I 
asked him about his life; why he stayed there, etc. 
He told me that many times the little village had been 
shelled, and often the Germans had drawn very near 
its outskirts, but always he had stayed. They had 



THE RED VINEYARD 


135 


struck kis house on different occasions. Many of his 
people had gone, but there still remained about eighty, 
all told; those, with their families, who were in differ¬ 
ent ways connected with operations of the mine. Some 
of his flock were obliged to stay here, and — well, he 
must not leave them shepherdless. So the old pastor 
remained. 

When we had finished our coffee, he rose to his feet. 
“Come,” he said, and I followed him through a tiny 
passageway into a darkened room, for all the panes of 
glass had been shattered in the window-frame and the 
opening had been boarded across, save a small open¬ 
ing where a piece of translucent paper had been 
pasted. It was a few seconds before my eyes became 
accustomed to the semi-darkness, but when they did 
I was scarcely prepared for what they viewed. In 
the middle of the room, reaching almost to the ceiling, 
rose a great pyramid of bags of sand; in one side was 
an opening, and in this, on the floor, was spread a 
mattress and some bedding; this was where the old man 
slept. 

As I walked up the sunlit street after I had said 
“au revoir” to the priest and his kind housekeeper, I 
was filled with profound admiration for the old pastor. 
I think it was the greatest admiration I have ever felt 
for any man, and I quoted to myself: “The good 
Shepherd loveth his flock.” 

The following morning, as I stood in the shell-torn 
church of Bully-Grenay after I had officiated for the 
lads of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth at Fosse-dix, I 
found the church packed with the lads of the Thir- 




136 


THE RED VINEYARD 


teenth and Fourteenth. There was scarcely room in 
the church for them all. I said a word about the old 
pastor and — well, I don’t think it was often that the 
collection plate was so well filled at Bully-Grenay as 
it was that morning. 

I returned to the church in the afternoon to hear 
confessions and give Holy Communion, accompanied 
by Father MacPherson of the Fifth Divisional Artil¬ 
lery. We found the old pastor in the church teaching 
catechism to the few little ones of his flock. They sat 
on the high-backed chairs which are also used as 
kneeling-benches by the people of France. And when¬ 
ever one or the other of us would come to the altar- 
rail bearing the Bread of Life to a group of soldiers, 
the old white-haired Shepherd, with his little flock, 
would kneel, while through the roof, which had been 
pierced in many places by shells, trickled the rain to 
drop on the floor beneath, carrying with it powdered 
plaster and flakes of calcimine. 


Chapter XLYII 

The Little Cure of Fosse-Dix 

Every evening at 4:30 the cure of Fosse-dix gave 
Benediction in his little church for the school children 
and any of the village people who could attend. After 
Benediction he usually said the beads, the Litany and 
a few other prayers, and before he finished my boys 



THE RED VINEYARD 


137 


used to arrive for confession. As the confessional was 
in the rear of the church, facing the altar, I often 
saw the children coming down the aisle. First, an old 
Sister of Charity, her wide white coronet flapping on 
either side like two white wings, backed slowly down 
the aisle, the children coming two by two, facing her. 
Generally as they came they sang a beautiful hymn to 
the Sacred Heart, but I can only recall the last two 
lines, which they always repeated. Translated, they 
would read: “Heart of Jesus, heart of clemency, save, 
save France in the name of the Sacred Heart!” The 
children would walk in perfect order till they reached 
the door where the old fat Sister stood watching them. 
Although I could not see them then, I always knew 
when each couple had passed the good Sister; a scam¬ 
pering of feet and sometimes a little shouting were 
the signals. 

One evening while the children were going out in 
the customary way, singing their beautiful hymn, I 
noticed five or six soldiers in the French uniform of 
grey-blue. They remained quiet while the children 
were singing the first stanza, but when they came to 
the lines I have quoted above, a great chorus sounded 
as soldiers joined with the children in imploring the 
Sacred Heart to save France. 

Every evening, after coming from our mess, I step¬ 
ped into the cure’s room to have a chat with him. 
Sometimes I had a box of good things that had come 
from relatives back in Canada, for our Christmas 
boxes were only now beginning to arrive. I remember 
one evening opening a parcel while the little priest 



138 


THE RED VINEYARD 


voiced his simple wonder at the strange things from 
across the seas. He had never seen chewing gum be¬ 
fore, so I gave him a few sticks of Spearmint. In a 
little while I looked at him, but his jaws were motion¬ 
less and the gum was nowhere to be seen. 

“Where is your gum, Father?” I asked. 

He looked at me keenly, not understanding my ques¬ 
tion, so I repeated it. Again he looked at me, but this 
time he answered me. 

“Why,” he said, “I swallowed it!” 

Then, because I laughed heartily, I had to explain 
to him how the people of the New World use gum. 

One day while I was absent, working among the 
soldiers, a shell came whistling over the village, burst¬ 
ing in the road near his garden tearing several holes 
in the brick wall of his house. When I returned he 
took me out to see the havoc that had been wrought, 
pointing out with minute care every place where a 
splinter of shell had struck. He seemed to be taking 
the whole thing so solemnly that I could not but be¬ 
come solemn, too; so I said to him, as I pointed to 
quite a large hole that had been torn through the 
frame of a ladder resting against the house, supposing 
he had been walking there, and that the shell had 
burst in the road about that time, and his head had 
been bent a little as the piece of shell went through the 
ladder — I looked at him, shaking my head ominously 
at the thought of what might have happened. 

He looked at me quickly. “Oh, if! — if! — if!” he 
said. “One could take Paris and put it in a bottle — 
if — it would go in!” 



THE RED VINEYARD 


139 


He had a pass from a British general which permit¬ 
ted him to stop any military lorry going in his direc¬ 
tion and take passage on it. It was always a mystery 
to the military chaplains how he had obtained it. 
During the day he was off searching for chaplains 
whose men were in the line and who could attend one 
or more of his shepherdless flocks the following Sun¬ 
day. At different times throughout the early spring 
campaign I was able to help him with his work, and 
I always felt glad of the opportunity; for he was truly 
a man of God. 


Chapter XLVIII 

Into the Line 

The following Sunday at Fosse-dix I gave the men 
a general absolution and then Holy Communion, for 
they were going in the line immediately; after the 
service was over I asked them to leave me the addresses 
of their next of kin. Both Sundays, while at Fosse-dix, 
a young lieutenant served my Mass. The address that 
he gave me was that of a Mrs. Maxwell-Scott, London, 
England. I asked him if this was his mother’s address 
and he said it was. Then I said, by way of a passing 
remark, “I suppose you are a relative of Sir Walter 
Scott.” To my surprise, he said he was. In the course 
of the week some little pamphlets arrived for the 
soldiers, and as I was examining them I noticed that 



140 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the name of the author of several was Mrs. Maxwell- 
Scott. The next time I met the young officer I asked 
if the author of the Catholic pamphlets was a relation 
of his. He smiled. 4 ‘My mother,” he said. 

As not half my soldiers were in the trenches the 
first week, I did not spend all my time in the line. 
There were confessions, and Masses to say for those 
who were out. But I recall quite vividly the morning 
before I went in the line for the first time. I felt a 
great uneasiness, so that I could not stay very long 
in the same place. I remember particularly the last 
hour before the time to go arrived. I took a clean 
sheet of paper, sat down at a table and made my last 
will and testament. This I folded and placed in my 
pocket Bible. Then I sat quietly for a while in the 
little room till George came to tell me that a groom 
was at the door with my horse, and that I was to 
meet the officer with whom I was to go at the mess. 

We rode over through Bully-Grenay, then up through 
Grenay, where we left our horses with the groom; 
from there on we walked through ruined buildings 
till we came to a great open waste, zigzagged with 
long white trenches. I had always expected to find the 
trenches brown, but here they were chalk-white. We 
passed Crucifix Corner, then left the road and walked 
through a field or two above the trenches. I was 
wondering when my companion would go down into 
them, for we could now see Fritz’s line. We passed 
Loos, on our right, which was nothing but a few shat¬ 
tered walls standing, and the slag heap of a ruined 
mine; then on our left, a place called Ilulluch. I 



THE RED VINEYARD 


141 


was rather anxious to be down in the communication 
trenches; the countryside appeared very level and al¬ 
ways we were drawing nearer the German front line. 
My companion, a veteran of the Boer War, did not 
seem to feel the slightest timidity. He had not spoken 
now for a few minutes and the silence was oppressive. 
As far as I could see, the whole countryside was criss¬ 
crossed with trenches; hardly a living person could be 
seen, yet in the twinkling of an eye the great gridiron 
before me could be alive with thousands of men now 
burrowing in the earth like foxes. I began to wish 
that I, too, were between two walls of friendly.earth. 
Then the captain spoke: 

“We’re under observation now, Padre. Fritz can see 
us walking along.” 

“Then, why doesn’t he fire at us?” I asked, but what 
I really wished to say was: “Well, why don’t we jump 
down into the trench and walk along it?” but I did 
not say it. 

“Well,” he replied, “we’re a little too far for good 
rifle shooting, and shells cost too much to be wasted 
on just two men.” 

I drew a long breath, and felt grateful for the high 
cost of shells! Then I heard words that were like 
music to my ears: “Suppose we step down into the 
trench, Padre.” 

I did. 




142 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter XLIX 

Called Up 

Although the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Battalions 
were in the line, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth were 
still in reserve and support, and every evening I was 
on duty at Bully-Grenay or Bracquemont to hear the 
confessions of these troops. 

I remember one evening while on my way from 
Fosse-dix to Bracquemont, where the Thirteenth was 
now quartered, hearing the strains of an accordion, 

and a number of male voices singing some French 

song. I stopped and looked back. Down the little 
street came a strange procession. First, a young man, 
badly crippled from some hip trouble, limped rather 
quickly for one so stricken. High above him, from a 
pole that he carried, waved a large tri-color of France. 
Immediately behind him, still wearing his soldier’s 
uniform, came a French soldier who had been wound¬ 
ed. It was he who played the accordion. Then be¬ 
hind him, and spread out the whole width of the 

street, was a column of young men of about seventeen 
or eighteen years of age. All were bedecked in gay 
colors — sashes of crimson or yellow or green, etc., 
around the waist and over the shoulders; streamers of 
different colored ribbons waving from their hats or 
caps. As they advanced, they danced some strange 
continental dance which now and again called for the 
crossing of feet, and sometimes the resting of the 
hand on the shoulder of a neighbor. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


143 


When they drew opposite me the singing and danc¬ 
ing stopped, and they fell into a regular marching 
step, while the wounded soldier played “Father of 
Victory” march on his accordion. They passed me, 
marching briskly and cheering irregularly. Doors 
flew open in the little village of Bracquemont as they 
entered, and mothers and sisters ran to them to see 
the young lads as they passed. 

When I came out from the church that evening the 
lads were just coming back from the next town. Again 
they were singing their song and dancing their fantas¬ 
tic dance. Just as they neared the church, the Thir¬ 
teenth pipe band came behind them playing merrily. 
Hearing it, the lads quickened their step till it was al¬ 
most in time with the Scotch music. On they went, 
keeping ahead of the band, which was obliged to 
slacken its pace a little, but it did so accommodatingly. 

I stood near an old man watching the procession. 
Alongside us were three middle-aged women who 
smiled as it passed; but I saw tears on the cheeks of 
one woman while she smiled. 

The old man told me that this was the procession of 
the young men who had just received their call to the 
colors. Tomorrow they would leave. On my way back 
to Fosse-dix I was wondering why it was that a lame 
man carried the flag; then suddenly it came to me that 
on account of his lameness he could not go to the war, 
and that very likely for this reason each class, when 
called, showed him the courtesy of appointing him to 
lead the procession. 



144 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter L 

Bully Les Mines 

The following week the Thirteenth and Fourteenth 
moved up to the front line from reserve and we went 
to Mazingarbe, only about four miles distant from 
Fosse-dix. Here, again, I was billeted with a cure; a 
comparatively young man, who was very distant in 
manner, though most kind in helping me with my 
work and seeing that I had everything I needed. His 
church had been hit several times and part of the 
sacristy had been blown off; the parish was being 
shelled periodically. Mazingarbe was the name of the 
town, but as there were two churches in it, within a 
mile of each other, the parish in which I was billeted 
was namely Bully-les-Mines. 

Here I met for the first time, Father Madden, 0. M. 
I., chaplain to the Second Brigade, and Father Lock¬ 
ary, chaplain to the First Brigade. They gave me 
very good advice concerning the performance of my 
duties, for both had been at the front for many 
months. Father Madden had been there longer than 
Father Lockary, and he wore the little purple and 
white ribbon of the Military Cross. I found my work 
very easy the following Sunday. 

On Monday morning, fully equipped with “steel 
lid,” trench boots, pack on my back, I started for the 
trenches, where I remained till the end of the week. 
We had a little trouble getting up to headquarters, 
for Fritz was shelling them when we arrived; but we 



THE RED VINEYARD 


145 


managed to make it between shells. Headquarters 
was in the basement of what was once a hospital at 
St. Pierre. 

The first night in the line I slept in a cellar which 
had been roofed over. On going from headquarters 
to this cellar I was accompanied by an orderly; sud¬ 
denly I heard a report like a pistol-shot, and then a 
hissing, as of an extra large sky-rocket tearing its way 
up through the air. My companion caught me by the 
arm and told me not to move. Then the hissing object 
turned, burst into a brilliant light and began to des¬ 
cend very slowly, lighting up the battle front for al¬ 
most a mile. Then the light went out and we went 

% 

onward. “A Verey light/’ said the Corporal. “ ‘Old 
Fritz’ must be getting ‘windy’. He’s been shooting 
off a lot of Verey lights on this front. Always stand 
perfectly still, Padre, when you see or hear a Verey 
light.” 

I had a companion in the cellar, the medical officer 
of the Thirteenth, Captain Cochrane, who was a Cath¬ 
olic and an American. All the wounded from the line 
were to pass through his hands. We did not have 
very many wounded. 

My first visit to the Front Line trench was made 
the second day of my visit. I went with the orderly 
officer for the day, Lieutenant J. Mclvor, M. C., who 
was the only Catholic officer in the Sixteenth. The 
chalk trenches were so similar, and so high, that I 
could not tell when I was in the Front Line. Mr. 
Mclvor had been looking at me for awhile, then he 
whispered: “We’re in the Front Line now, Father. 




146 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Old Fritz is just across the way.” It seemed strange: 
above us shells, going and coming, passed, making 
sometimes a soft, sweeping sound: at others, a shrill, 
whining noise. Everything was intensely quiet in the 
trenches. We were so near the German line that the 
occupants could be heard coughing, although I did 
not have the unique experience of hearing them cough. 

I stood up on the fire-step and peeped out over No 
Man’s Land. Not a blade of grass could be seen, 
nothing but the grey earth, that had been churned 
and riddled and tossed about by every missile of war. 
A little to my left a long green spar like a flag-staff 
stood up in “No Man’s Land;” a little beyond this, 
and behind Fritz’s line, was a partly demolished town. 

I saw all this in a second or two, then I felt a hand 
on my shoulder and a whisper came to my ear: “Not 
too long, Father.” 

I stepped down from the fire-step. 

As we went back towards battalion headquarters, I 
asked the officer the name of the town I had seen. 

“Lens,” he said. 


Chapter LI 

The One That Was Lost 

The winter passed quietly, each battalion of my 
brigade moving from reserve to support, from support 
into the line, then back to reserve again. And always 



THE RED VINEYARD 


147 


in those little churches up near the line, whenever 
there was a chaplain, confessions were heard from five 
o’clock every evening. Here the work was most con¬ 
soling, for my soldiers, moving about the village in 
the evening time, used to find their way to the church 
and there make a little visit or go to confession and 
Holy Communion. Often some would stay a long time 
praying. They had left mothers and fathers, wives 
and children, but the sanctuary lamp, burning softly, 
sent to them the silent signal, as it did at home, that 
‘‘the Lord was in His holy temple.” 

Often as I sat in the confessional in those little 
churches of France I thought of God’s wonderful 
ways; of the ineffable graces that flowed so continuous¬ 
ly to the souls of those lads. And many times, when 
the evening’s work was done and the last soul shriven, 
I have left my confessional and walked up the aisle 
to the altar-steps, and, kneeling down, have thanked 
God with a full heart for having made me a priest. 

On one of those evenings, after I had finished hear¬ 
ing confessions in the church at Bully-les-Mines, I 
noticed an old soldier sitting in one of the middle pews. 
He must have been nearly seventy; his hair was quite 
gray. I waited in my confessional for a short time, 
thinking perhaps he might wish to come, but as he 
did not, I stepped out from the box and began to 
walk up and down the aisle; and the old soldier stayed 
on. At last I stopped at his pew and asked him if he 
wished to go to confession. 

He said “No,” and then went on to tell me that 
he had been to prayers the night before, and that he 




148 


THE RED VINEYARD 


had come back again thinking there would be more 
prayers. But he repeated that he did not wish to 
go to confession. 

I told him there would be the Way of the Cross 
the following evening, which was Friday. The cure 
was having Lenten devotions twice a week. I was 
just about to leave the church then, as there was no 
one else to go to confession, when the old soldier spoke 
again. 

‘‘Father,” he said, “would you like to talk to me?” 
It seemed rather an unusual way to ask the question. 
Usually men said: “Father, I’d like to speak to you 
a minute.” However, if this man had anything he 
wished to say to me, I was there to hear it and also 
to help him by any advice I could. So I said that I 
would like to talk to him, if he wished. 

I then sat down beside the old man and slowly he 
began to speak. “Father,” he said, “I don’t want 
to go to confession — I haven’t been to confession for 
forty years. I’ve led an awful life, Father. All that 
time I have been trying to do without God. Lately, 
though, Father, I have begun to think that I can’t 
do it. Since I’ve come to France I’ve seen a lot, and 
I’ve been thinking a lot. I’ve come to the conclusion 
that there is some power directing all things. For 
even to run a peanut stand there must be some one 
behind it to direct things. I believe in God, Father — 
but I don’t want to go to confession.” 

He stopped speaking for a second or two, and we 
sat in silence. Up before the tabernacle the little 



THE RED VINEYARD 


149 


flame in the sanctuary lamp leaped a few times. Then 
he spoke again: 

“But, Father, I have led an awful life!” He began 
then and there to tell me the history of his life. I 
listened quietly, and as he continued telling me of 
forty years’ estrangement from God, I prayed with 
all my strength to the Sacred Heart of Jesus for grace 
to bring this poor lost sheep back into the fold. Surely 
the Sacred Heart would hear my prayer. “I will 
give to priests,” He had said, “the power to touch the 
most hardened heart.” 

For a long time I sat there and the old man con¬ 
tinued to talk. Now and again I would ask a question 
by way of encouraging him in his recital. 

At last he finished, and his head moved a little from 
side to side, very slowly, as he said: “Father, I’ve 
led an awful life !” 

“Yes,” I said, “and now if you will come with me 
into the confessional and ask God’s pardon from the 
bottom of your heart for all those sins, I will give 
you holy absolution.” 

It was late that evening when the old man stepped 
out from the confessional, but before he did he said 
to me: “Father, if ever you wish to make known all 
that has gone on this night, either by writing or word, 
you have my permission to do so, for it might help 
some other poor soul.” 

All through his confession I had been praying for 
grace to know what to do next. I wished to give him 
holy communion, for one never knew when a missile 



150 


THE RED VINEYARD 


of death might drop — just about that time a giant 
enemy shell had crashed into the village so unexpect¬ 
edly that I saw a red-faced officer of the line turn a 
sickly white. And yet the old soldier had been such 
a long time away from the sacraments. But before 
he left the confessional I had decided what to do. 
“Now,” I said, “you will just go up to the sanctuary 
rail and pray a little and then I will give you Holy 
Communion.” 

A few moments later I tip-toed softly out of the 
church and left the old man happy with Jesus of 
Nazareth, the Saviour of the world. 

Frequently, since I have come home, when I relate 
some of the wonderful ways of the Master with these 
soldier lads people say to me: “Ah, Father, they came 
back to the sacraments because they were afraid.” 

To me, who have witnessed these miracles of God's 
grace, such words always sound harsh, and I then try 
to explain to the people what these men really went 
through. I describe the long vigil in the muddy front 
line trench during the cold, silent hours of the night, 
when there was much time to think. Perhaps for 
the first time in years some men began to do a little 
serious thinking. Under ordinary circumstances, when 
the voice of conscience speaks, one has a thousand 
ways of deafening the ears. In the trenches there was 
no means of silencing the still, small voice. All things 
conspired to make one think seriously of death and 
the fragility of human life. It was these thoughts 
mostly that brought so many men back to God. He 
spoke to them and they heard. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


151 


I remember once having explained this state of 
things to an old woman who had said to me that the 
men came through fear. I had done my best to con¬ 
vince her that the reason the men came was that they 
had grown serious under hardship. She looked at me 
calmly and knowingly, and said: “That’s it, Father! 
They were afraid!” 


Chapter LII 

A Vague Unrest 

The spring was drawing near, and a certain vague 
feeling of unrest was over the troops. Word was be¬ 
ing passed about that old Fritz was preparing for 
something. On our side there were no visible pre¬ 
parations for a spring offensive. 

And so the lads were restless. Very often, when 
the wind was favorable, large enemy 1 toy-balloons 
floated high over our lines, and as the long piece of 
smouldering hemp attached to each balloon burned up 
to a knotted cord, a package of propaganda articles 
was released and a great flock of fluttering leaflets 
came slowly down through the air, falling at last among 
the troops in the back areas. Usually these articles 
told of a big offensive that was to begin and went on 
to say that as the Germans had no hatred for the 
Canadians, and as they saw no reason for the Cana¬ 
dians taking part in this war, they advised them not 




152 


THE RED VINEYARD 


to take part in it any longer. I remember one batch 
of leaflets gave us just seventy-two hours to get out 
of the war. Although we laughed at such propaganda, 
we were undeniably restless. For instance, we were 
especially watchful till the seventy-two hours had 
passed. We knew Fritz was going to strike, but we 
did not know when or where. 

Just about the middle of March we moved out to 
Hersin, a little town about three miles from Fosse-dix, 
to rest. I was billeted with the cure, a most lovable 
man, to whose house was attached a large garden. 
There were a few peach trees in the garden and they 
were already in bloom. 

While at Hersin I was able to help the cure of 
Fosse-dix by going to one of his adopted parishes, 
Bouvigny, about five miles from where I was billeted. 
While taking breakfast with him, he showed me a 
small photo of the interior of the church at Bouvigny 
after a recent bombardment. Half the church seemed 
to be filled with broken beams and pillars, and look¬ 
ing out from the debris, untouched in any way, was an 
almost life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin. I was 
struck by the serene, calm expression of Our Lady, 
but this seemingly miraculous preservation of statues 
and crucifixes was a common occurrence on the West¬ 
ern Front. 

Just before I left a number of airplanes hummed by 
overhead, and casually I asked the cure if he had ever 
been up in an airplane. He surprised me by saying 
he had, during some great public event at Paris. When 
he had reached solid earth again after his flight, a 



THE RED VINEYARD 


153 


society lady, standing nearby, had said: “Now, my 
Father, you will know the way to heaven!” He had 
replied, he said: “Yes, Madame, and whenever you 
wish to know the way to heaven, I will be very pleased 
to teach you it.” 

That was the last time I ever saw the little cure 
of Fosse-dix, for on Thursday, March 21st, something 
happened and we were ordered back suddenly to 

4 

Mazingarbe. I remember the date very well for it 
was the Feast of St. Benedict and my birthday. 

The unrest was no longer vague. 


Chapter LIII 

The Great Offensive 

“Old Fritz” had struck at a vital part of the Allied 
front, planning nothing less than a separation of the 
French and British armies. He was attacking on a 
sixty-three mile front. He had “opened up” with a 
terrific bombardment; it was no ordinary barrage, but 
one he had been preparing for weeks. He had begun 
the bombardment at five o’clock, a. m., and before 
noon had broken through the British line in many 
places. 

For four or five days we waited in Mazingarbe; the 
whole First Canadian Division was now standing to 
arms ready to go whenever they might be needed. 
Every morning from four o’clock till nearly seven 



154 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the Third Brigade was “standing to” on the square, 
fully equipped for battle; for it was always just be¬ 
fore dawn that attacks were made. Fritz did not 
attack on our front, but on Wednesday, the 27th, or¬ 
ders came for us to march. 

I left Mazingarbe at about two o’clock for our assem¬ 
bly area, which was Chateau de la Haie. I arrived there 
about four o ’clock to find every battalion of the Third 
Brigade quartered in the huts about the chateau. On 
learning that we were going to be here till ten o ’clock, 
p. m., I immediately went around to all the orderly 
rooms and announced confessions. There was a tiny 
house on the grounds that had once been a private ora¬ 
tory; the stretcher-bearers were quartered here, but 
on hearing that I wished to have the use of it, they 
very kindly gave it over to me for four hours. I 
heard confessions here for the time allotted, then 
when it was time for the occupiers of the hut to pre¬ 
pare for departing I stepped outside, still wearing my 
purple stole, and stood under a tree, near which were 
tethered horses. There was a long line of soldiers 
waiting. Each man walked up, told his little story, 
received absolution as he stood there under the stars, 
then passed on a few paces to say his penance, while 
the next in line moved up. For a long time I stood 
there while soldiers, going and coming, passed along 
the road near which the men were in line. 

At midnight long lines of hooded motor lorries 
glided over smooth roads from three different direc¬ 
tions towards Acq. On coming to the point where the 
roads crossed they came slowly to a stop; then thou- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


155 


sands of soldiers who had been sitting or standing 
along the roads began quickly to “embus.” 

We waited for almost an hour, till the last lorry had 
moved off, then I fell in with the transport section. 
I could have gone in one of the lorries, but I wished to 
go with the transport section as then I might be in a 
better position to watch the movements of the whole 
brigade. 

We went south, marching all through the night. It 
was a beautiful moonlight night. We went up hill 
and down hill, and always before us moved the long 
irregular line of the transport. There were vehicles 
of almost every description — limbers, general service 
wagons, “mulligan batteries,” the “pill cart,” (which 
was a two-wheeled affair with a red-cross painted on 
either side of the hood), mess cart, water cart, etc. 
We passed through one silent moonlit village after 
another, sometimes halting to rest awhile. Now and 
again an upstairs window opened cautiously, and a 
night-capped head peeped over the window-sill at the 
long line of the transport resting in the village street. 
Towards the dawn we were passing through a beau¬ 
tiful countryside in which were many old stone cha¬ 
teaux, built far back from the main road, with green 
fields bordered by high trees before them. 

For the past six or seven days we had not been 
having very much sleep, and as daylight began to 
break I began to feel very weary; once or twice while 
actually marching I fell asleep, only to be awakened 
by falling against the man marching before me. 

Often during the night, as we reached the crest of 



156 


THE RED VINEYARD 


some hill, we could see the yellow flashes of shrapnel 
as it burst in the air, and always we were drawing 
nearer. But with the dawn we seemed to have drawn 
away from the war area; for now there was neither 
sign nor sound of the enemy guns. Whenever we 
stopped to rest, men would crawl into the ditches or 
lie down near a hedge-row or an open field and go to 
sleep. Once in a sunken road I noticed a number of 
cyclists sleeping; they were leaning against the high 
banks which sloped upwards and away from the road. 
There was just enough slope to the banks to see that 
they were not standing. Their faces were almost 
black from the road dust. On two or three bicycles 
were strapped large wicker baskets, and in each bas¬ 
ket hopped about two or three carrier pigeons. These 
were to be used in an emergency. 

In an open field a number of men from the trans¬ 
port sections were preparing breakfast, their horses 
drawn up on the side of the road, busy with their 
nose-bags, and the odor of frying bacon was wafted 
on the morning air. We did not breakfast, as we had 
no rations with us. Two general service wagons with 
rations for the whole battalion were to join us farther 
on. 

Once, on leaving a quaint little village grouped about 
a small, perhaps century-old stone church, we caught 
a glimpse of a wide stretch of green country-side. We 
had been ascending a hill for quite a distance before 
coming to the village. The ground mists had cleared 
and the sun was out. From different directions, but 
converging towards the same point, were a number 



THE RED VINEYARD 


157 


of white roads along which were moving or resting 
the long, irregular lines of transport sections from 
many different battalions. Just for an instant every 
thing seemed to be changed. I thought I was back in 
my own peaceful country and that I was looking at 
a wonderful assembling of gipsy caravans. Up in the 
clear air a small bird soared singing its blithe, care¬ 
free song. It was the first time I had ever heard a 
lark. The joyous melody seemed but to emphasize the 
fantasy. 

Then suddenly my dream vanished and I was back 
to France, sitting on the roadside on the 28th day of 
March, 1918, tired, sleepy and hungry, wondering at 
about what time we would meet the oncoming German 
army! 

When towards noon we entered a little town called 
Couturelle, word was passed along the line that we 
were going to halt here. I had just finished saying 
to George that I should not care to have to make the 
march over again when I noticed the quartermaster 
of the Thirteenth Battalion come galloping up the 
road, smiling and calling out: “We’ve come to the 
wrong place.” He waved his crop to me as he passed, 
saying: “We have to go back to the Arras area, 
Padre!” 

I looked in wonder at George. We had left the 
Arras front last night towards midnight. I had just 
said I should not care to make the march over again. 
Now we were to do so! 

We came to a halt in an open part of the village, 
and there we had lunch; perhaps I should say break- 



158 


THE RED VINEYARD 


fast. After the meal I went down to the little church 
to make a visit. When I came back all the men were 
sleeping. I then lay down in the ditch, put my haver¬ 
sack under my head, and although it was the 28th of 
March I was soon sound asleep. In about two hours 
we were awakened. 


Chapter LIV 

Agnez-lez-Duisans 

I did not walk back to the Arras front. I went in 
a lorry. As we drew near our destination I was sur¬ 
prised to see so much traffic — but it was all coming 
towards us. At every cross-road we were stopped by 
the traffic police, just as one might be stopped in a 
large city. It was the first time I had ever witnessed 
a retreat. Great stores were in Arras belonging to 
the military and the British Expeditionary Force can¬ 
teens. Most of these stores were being removed, and 
the city of Arras, as well as the country villages near 
it, was being evacuated. 

Up to this time I had seen the effect of war on com¬ 
batants only. Now I was continually passing scenes 
that made me turn sick at heart; for all along our way 
came little groups of French peasants — mostly old 
and young women, and children, though now and 
again an old man was passed. Sometimes a yoke of 
oxen, hitched to a large farm wagon, were guided to 



THE RED VINEYARD 


159 


the right of the road by a woman or young boy. And 
sometimes an old woman led a cow or calf, while an 
old man pushed a large wheel-barrow full of bedding. 
Once, while we stopped at a cross-road, I tried to study 
the faces of those who passed. On no face did I see 
the marks of any great strain or fear. All were attired 
in their Sunday garments. None of the children cried 
or seemed hysterical. All had a good color, and their 
large eyes looked solemnly about at the strange scenes 
surrounding them; but not one of them hopped or 
jumped or smiled at us. The expression in their faces 
was one that I noticed in those of the older people. I 
can only describe it as one of stolidity. Here were 
these people leaving homes where perhaps whole gen¬ 
erations of them had lived, going they knew not where, 
leaving behind them many things of value; but they 
must sleep on the way and the nights were cold, there¬ 
fore they had all brought bedding along with them. 
For the first time since I had enlisted I recalled a 
short and succinct definition of war given by General 
Sherman. “General Sherman was right/’ I said 
grimly. 

Presently we came into a little village, at the entrance 
of which was a large Calvary on the roadside, the great 
white figure drooping from the cross in agony. To¬ 
morrow would be His day. Perhaps it was the con¬ 
tinual passing of these wayside Calvarys that gave 
patience to the peasantry. I was glad when the driver 
told me that this was our destination. 

The lorry stopped before a large camp of Nissen 
huts. A gentle mist had been falling for the last hour 



160 


THE RED VINEYARD 


or two, but now it was developing into quite a drizzle. 
I walked across the muddy square, then down a little 
lane through rows of huts till I found my billet. In 
one part of the hut the rain was leaking through the 
roof, but I did not mind this. There were no berths, 
but we had our bed-rolls and all that was necessary 
was to roll them out on the floor. I had been sleeping 
on floors now, from time to time, for over a year and 
I cannot say that it ever inconvenienced me very much. 
Just as I w^as leaving the hut to go to the church to 
make a visit — for it was Holy Thursday — two Scotch 
Highlanders accosted me. They wished to know to 
which battalion I belonged. When I told them, they 
became very friendly and told me that they had just 
come from the Front. Fritz had pushed them back 
a little that morning, but they had been holding him 
since dinner-time. This was good news, and I hoped 
that Fritz would continue to be held. 

I had been praying before the lighted repository in 
the village church for a few minutes when I heard 
footsteps coming, then I felt a hand touch me on the 
shoulder, then a military chaplain walked by me into 
the sacristy. I followed him. When he turned, I 
recognized him immediately. It was Father Christo¬ 
pher Sheehan, an Irish chaplain whom I had met at 
St. Michael’s Club, London, just about a year before. 
He had come to London to receive the Military Cross 
from King George of England. 

“Don’t you know me, Father?” he asked. I smiled 
and told him his name and when and where I had met 
him; also what I was doing there and when I had 



THE RED VINEYARD 


161 


come. When I had finished his brown eyes lighted up 
pleasantly, as with the enthusiasm of a boy he began 
to tell me that I was “in luck.” For he was billeted 
at a convent school and had charge of all the livestock 
on the premises. Then Father Sheehan went on to 
prove that I was “in luck;” and as he enumerated all 
the articles he had at his disposal, I quite agreed with 
him. The Sisters had left him bottles and bottles of 
preserved pears, peaches, and strawberries, many dif¬ 
ferent kinds of vegetables and a large number of 
hares, etc. His eyes sparkled with delight at the 
thought of being able to share his good things with 
some one. He looked at his wrist-watch; it was nearly 
six o’clock. “Dinner-time,” he said, “Father, come!” 

I followed him up the road, thanking God that I had 
fallen in with this warm-hearted Irish priest. On the 
way he told me that the lad with him was an excellent 
cook. I think the way the good things disappeared 
that evening was sufficient evidence of my apprecia¬ 
tion of his culinary art. Yes, gentle reader, it was 
Lent — but, then, you know it was war time! 

Just as we had finished George came in; but he was 
scarcely in till he found himself seated at the table 
that Father Sheehan and I had just vacated, and pres¬ 
ently the cook and George had set to work. They 
went at it earnestly, carefully, and methodically, giv¬ 
ing it all attention. The cook had prepared an enor¬ 
mous quantity of potatoes; an ordinary vegetable dish 
would have been too small to hold them all, so they 
were piled high in a large white milk basin. Father 
Sheehan and I had decreased the pile considerably, 



162 


THE RED VINEYARD 


but now under the skillful treatment of George and 
the cook the remainder disappeared with extraordinary 
rapidity. It was good to watch the lads; they worked 
with such dispatch and so whole-heartedly. It was a 
wonderful example of the adage, “What you have to 
do, do it well,” and I felt loath to leave when Father 
Sheehan asked me to come with him to one of the 
class-rooms. 


Chapter LV 

The Refugees 

Father Sheehan, opening the door of the class-room, 
stood back for me to enter. I did, and then fell back 
in surprise, for the little class-room was almost filled 
with French civilians and piles of bedding. The seven 
or eight little children looked wide-eyed at me, but 
they smiled brightly when they saw Father Sheehan. 
The older people greeted me simply, as is the way of 
the French peasant with the stranger. 

They were refugees from Dainville and were stop¬ 
ping at the convent over night. Tomorrow, Good Fri¬ 
day, they were to continue their sorrowful journey. 
They were mostly women, though there was one old 
man among them who did most of the talking. He 
seemed somewhat apologetic as to his position. “Do 
you think,” he said to me, “that if it were not for 
these women and children I would be here? I, sir, 




THE RED VINEYARD 


163 


would stay to meet the enemy. In 1870 I was a soldier 
in the army of France, and I was a prisoner of war, 
but now I must look after these women and children.” 

I expressed my sympathy with the old soldier and 
asked him a few questions about the Franco-Prussian 
war of 1870. When I had finished, he looked at me 
keenly. “You, monsieur, you are an Englishman?” 

“No,” I answered, “I am a Canadian, chaplain to 
the Canadian soldiers.” 

The keen look in the old man’s eyes became more 
intense as they searched my face. “Ah!” he said with 
a slow intake of breath. “Ah!” he repeated. Then he 
stood erect. “The soldiers of Canada are good sol¬ 
diers,” he half-shouted. 

As I bowed my appreciation of his praise, he turned 
and spoke to the women, but his words were uttered 
so rapidly that I could not catch their sense. 

Presently he turned to me again, and there was a 
bright, hopeful look in his eyes. “Are the Canadians 
going to remain here?” he asked. I said I thought 
we were, for we had come to stop the German advance. 
I did not add “if we are able,” for I wished to give 
him courage. “Ah!” the old man said again. 

The next morning as I came down to the convent to 
breakfast I met a great number of refugees, only this 
time instead of leaving their homes they were return¬ 
ing to them. Almost in the lead of the procession, 
pushing a wheel-barrow stacked high with bedding 
came the old man that I had talked with the previous 
evening. He greeted me warmly, as did the women; 
the little children smiled. 


i 



164 


THE RED VINEYARD 


“We are returning* home,” the old man said. “I 
don’t think the enemy will advance any farther now.” 

As I left him and his companions and turned in to¬ 
wards the gates of the convent, I felt a great gladness 
coming over me. Yesterday these poor people were 
going out from their homes; but since then the Cana¬ 
dian lads had come and now were lined up between the 
homes of these French peasants and the enemy. These 
people knew the Canadian soldiers, so they were go¬ 
ing back to their homes. 

I felt proud of my Canadian lads. 


Chapter LYI 

Arras 

That afternoon, accompanied by Father Sheehan, I 
went up to Arras to visit my brigade, for most of the 
soldiers were billeted in the city. Arras was being 
heavily shelled by the enemy. Long before we reached 
the suburbs we could see the sudden spurts of black 
smoke rising in many places from large buildings; 
and as we drew nearer we could hear the dull, quick- 
echoing crash as shell after shell shrieked its way into 
the great chalk buildings and exploded. Our own field 
artillery was busy on the outskirts of the town, re* 
turning the German fire. A fine mist of rain fell. 

It is extremely hard to describe the strange, un¬ 
familiar depression that came over one entering the 



THE RED VINEYARD 


165 


city; for everything was silent, save when a shell 
shrieked horribly and then burst, while almost simul¬ 
taneously came the sound of falling stone and mortar 
and the tinkle of broken glass. Nobody walked in 
the silent streets; and in the great empty dilapidated 
buildings there was no movement, save now and then 
the flutter of torn window-blind or soiled curtain in 
some empty window-frame. In one part of the city 
blood was mingled with the rain water that ran slowly 
along the gutter. 

We came to the giant statue of Neptune, which faced 
us and divided our street. We followed the street 
which ran to our left, passed the Monument and pre¬ 
sently were at the hospital of St. John, which was in 
charge of some French nuns — I think they were of 
the Augustinian Order. They had given over one large 
wing of their hospital to the Canadians, who were 
using it as an advance dressing station. 

There was a really beautiful chapel attached to this 
hospital, and there was an English military chaplain 
quartered near it, who said Mass there every morning. 
I arranged with him to have the use of the chapel on 
Easter Sunday to say Mass for my lads, but when on 
Saturday I went to Brigade Headquarters, which was 
in Arras, to announce the hours of service I was told 
that there would be no church parades, as the shelling 
was so continuous that no congregating of the men 
above ground would be permitted. The battalions of 
the Third Brigade were scattered in different billets 
throughout the city. I was very sorry I could not have 
the men for Easter Sunday, but since it would have 


\ 




166 


THE RED VINEYARD 


endangered their lives, I recognized the wisdom of the 
order. Before I left the city that evening there was 
not the slightest doubt in my mind but that the brigade 
officers had acted with great prudence, for I was the 
only one on the long road leading out of Arras, save 
occupants of an ambulance which came screeching up 
the road, passing me with terrific speed. When its 
sound had died away I became more than ever aware 
of the shells that dropped so perilously near that I 
could hear the splinters falling on the cobbles just 
behind me. 


Chapter LVII 

Easter Sunday 

Since I could not have a parade of my men at Arras 
I decided to do what good I could at Agnez-lez-Duisans. 
We had early Mass for the civil population, and as 
their cure was serving in the army I acted as parish 
priest that morning. Following my ordination to the 
priesthood I had been sent, as assistant priest, to a 
parish where French only was spoken. For three years 
I ministered to these people and when I had left them 
I felt that I had a fair working knowledge of their 
language, though when I first went among them, I 
received quite a shock. During my classical course 
I had studied the French language for four years; my 
theological course had been made at the Grand Sem- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


167 


inary of Quebec, where the great majority of the stu¬ 
dents were French-Canadians. I had left the Seminary 
thinking that I had an adequate knowledge of the 
French language; nevertheless, I took a whole week to 
prepare and memorize my first French sermon in the 
little parish. I entered the pulpit a little fearful, 
though when I found my words flowing with no great 
effort I warmed to the work. I went down to the altar 
feeling that I had done fairly well; but after Mass, 
while receiving a Mass offering from a gentle old lady 
who had come into the sacristy leaning on a cane, I 
asked her very simply how I had preached. I shall 
never forget the kindly look with which the old lady 
regarded me, as she said: “It was all right, Father, 
all right! We all knew what you were trying to say.” 
And I had been preparing for eight years! However, 
when I left these good people I think they used to 
know what I was saying. And this Easter morning, 
in far-away France, as peasant after peasant came to 
me to confession, I recalled these golden days of my 
early service for the Master when the first fervor of 
the young priest was strongly aglow and all the world 
was at peace. 

On Monday morning I took Holy Communion to an 
old woman who was an invalid and could not come to 
the church. Everything was spotlessly prepared and 
all the people knelt reverently when I entered the 
house bearing the Divine Guest. I tried to tip-toe softly 
in my big heavy military boots, but as they were built 
for marching on long roads I did not succeed very well. 
It seemed very strange there in the soft, carpeted 



168 


THE RED VINEYARD 


room; two or three women knelt near the bedside; the 
feminine touch was everywhere; for the first time since 
my enlistment I felt the lack of cassock and surplice. 
Somehow, I felt a little awkward. She was an old 
woman, and her life must have been a very holy one. 
Simply and with great faith she received the Divine 
Guest and I knew Our Lord would feel at home. 

When I was leaving one of the women pressed into 
my hand a five-franc piece. It was the first I had ever 
seen; but when I wished to return it, the woman 
seemed determined that I should keep it. I did — as 
a souvenir. 


Chapter LVIII 

The Ronville Caves 

On Wednesday morning while I was taking my 
breakfast in the mess of the Sixteenth Battalion, George 
came in with a cup of tea and some good news. All 
the battalions of the brigade were quartered in the 
Ronville caves — over three thousand men under¬ 
ground. This was, indeed, good news, for now I could 
do some work among the men, which I had been long¬ 
ing to do. 

The Ronville caves were just beyond the railway 
station, under the outskirts of Arras. Nearly all the 
buildings of the city, including the Cathedral of Arras, 
were built of chalk. This chalk had been quarried 



THE RED VINEYARD 


169 


from the depths of the earth, as near as possible to the 
city. When all the chalk necessary had been excavat¬ 
ed, lo! there remained the chalk caves of Ronville — 
a series of caves at the end of short tunnels that 
branched off from a great main tunnel miles in length. 

After breakfast I went down to the convent and 
found Father Sheehan seated in his dining-room. Yes, 
he knew well the situation of the Ronville caves and 
would be only too pleased to accompany me to them. 
In a few minutes we were on our way to Arras. We 
went through the city, turned to our right just before 
we came to the railway station, passed over the iron 
overhead bridge crossing the railway tracks, turned a 
little to our left, and presently we were walking 
through a quadrangle, pitted deeply with old and new 
shell holes, towards the entrance of the caves. 

We passed through the opening and almost imme¬ 
diately were in complete darkness. We stumbled along 
for a little, I happening to be in the lead, then sudden¬ 
ly a long shaft of light shot silently ahead of me, 
illuminating the long white chalk corridor. Father 
Sheehan’s small flashlight was at work. Then as we 
came around a curve in our road we heard from far 
down in the corridor a muffled complaint; our light 
was shining in the eyes of some poor oncomer; so im¬ 
mediately we were in darkness again, though far down 
the corridor, seemingly attached to the wall, a light as 
from a candle glimmered. We advanced slowly, Father 
Sheehan flashing his lamp intermittently on the ground 
just ahead. 

I visited all the battalions except the Thirteenth 




170 


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and had arranged to have the men come to confession 
and Holy Communion the following day, when we al¬ 
most collided with two kilted officers in the Thirteenth 
Battalion tartan. One was the chaplain of the battal¬ 
ion, then Captain Graham, M. C., (afterwards Major 
Graham, M. C., D. S. 0.) a Presbyterian, a brave sol¬ 
dier and a thorough gentleman; the other was a young 
Catholic officer who had but lately returned to his 
battalion after having been wounded. They had been 
looking for me. Captain Graham introduced the young 
officer, who was Captain E. Waud, and then left us. 
Captain Waud began very gently yet firmly to take me 
to task; “You have not been giving us an opportunity 
lately to go to confession, Father,’’ he said. 

I jumped interiorly, for this was the first time I 
had been accused of not giving the men every oppor¬ 
tunity of approaching the sacraments, but I liked that 
young officer then and there. 

“Well, captain,’’ I said, “no later than last Wed¬ 
nesday night I stood under a tree in Chateau de la 
Haie waiting for all the soldiers who might come; the 
Fourteenth and Sixteenth showed up well, but many 
of the Thirteenth did not show up.” 

“Oh,” he said, “we were at a concert that evening!” 

“Well,” I returned, “I had announced confessions 
before supper, and if the men missed the opportunity 
of going by attending a concert it was not my fault. 
However,” I continued, “I have just announced con¬ 
fessions for tomorrow at all the battalion orderly rooms, 
excepting the Thirteenth. I am on my way there now.” 

The young officer seemed very pleased, and promised 



THE RED VINEYARD 


171 


to have all the Catholic soldiers of his company in 
New Plymouth cave the following morning at ten 
o’clock. “God bless you!” I said to him. “If all my 
Catholic officers were as eager to come to confession, 
and bring their men, as you are, my work would be 
made very much easier.” 


Chapter LIX 

The Banquet Hall 

The following morning after breakfast Father Shee¬ 
han and I went down on our bicycles to the parish 
church. Then each of us, wearing a white stole over 
our uniform, went to the little tabernacle and after 
genuflecting silently, took from it one small military 
ciborium full of consecrated Hosts. Then silently we 
left the church bearing our precious burden. 

When we entered Arras, which was now known as 
the “City of the Dead,” we found, as usual, empty 
streets and the contour of many sections of the city 
fast disappearing under the unceasing bombardment 
of German guns. 

We left our bicycles in care of the guard on the 
bridge near the entrance to the Ronville caves and 
walked through the quadrangle, which contained many 
more shell-holes than it did on our previous visit. For 
this reason our passage was made very quickly. The 
long main tunnel was much better lighted, however, 




172 


THE RED VINEYARD 


lighted candles being attached at intervals on either 
wall. We turned to our right and entered a subsid¬ 
iary tunnel, above the entrance of which was a sign¬ 
board bearing the names of three or four different 
caves, New Plymouth was one to which the tunnel led. 

New Plymouth was wide and low, and although 
one of the smaller caves, could very easily accommo¬ 
date comfortably five or six hundred men. At one end 
farthest from the entrance was what proved to be an 
excellent altar table. The chalk had been quarried 
in such a manner that what appeared to be a large 
chalk altar remained. Father Sheehan and I looked 
at each other in some surprise; then placed our Sacred 
Burden on the altar, covered the two ciboriums with 
a small white cloth we had brought, and lighted two 
candles which we placed on either side — we had 
brought our pockets filled with small pieces of candles 
from the church. We then sat down on our steel hel¬ 
mets, placed on piles of chalk, for already we could 
hear the sound of many voices coming along the cor¬ 
ridor. Presently a large crowd of men from the Fif¬ 
teenth and Sixteenth entered the dimly-lighted cave, 
removed their caps, genuflected before the altar and 
then knelt in little groups on the hard chalk floor, 
silent in prayer — for the Lord was in His holy temple ! 

Quickly the men came to confession, and every ten 
or fifteen minutes either Father Sheehan or I stood 
up, went to the altar while some soldier said the “Con- 
fiteor;” then as the little white cloth was passed from 
one soldier to another they received with deep rever¬ 
ence their Lord. As each little semi-circle of men re- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


173 


ceived Holy Communion, they moved back into the 
more darkened portion of the cave where they knelt 
to make their thanksgiving. 

We had been dispensing “the mysteries of God” 
for nearly an hour when a large number from the 
Thirteenth came in and knelt down near me. Just be¬ 
fore them knelt their young captain. He had done as 
he had said; all his Catholic lads were with him. 
For a long time they knelt there on the hard chalk 
floor, and as now and again my eyes fell on the earn¬ 
est faces of the lads as they prayed reverently, my 
thoughts would go back to the early ages of the church 
when the first Christians adored God in the Catacombs 
of Rome. 

In a little while I gave the young officer and his lads 
Holy Communion. At the time there seemed to me 
to be some earnestness about the young captain — as 
if this communion were a great and holy preparation 
for some event that I knew nothing of. While he 
knelt back in the gloom, silently returning thanks to 
God, I could not help associating him with the knights 
of old. Then when he had finished his thanksgiving, 
strengthened by the coming of the Lord, he left the 
cave at the head of his men, ready, like a true knight, 
for whatever was to come. 

All day we worked in the Banquet Hall; all day 
long, with the exception of one or two short intervals, 
came the banqueters. At about half-past twelve a 
soldier came quickly into the cave calling loudly, “R. 
C. chaplain!” I stood up and went in the direction 
from which the voice had come. 




174 


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“Quick, sir!” said the soldier. “The M. 0. of the 
Fourteenth says one of your men is hit and for you 
to come quick.” Without delay I followed my guide 
down the tunnel till we came to the medical aid post 
of the Fourteenth. There, lying on a table with the 
doctor of the Fourteenth Battalion working over him 
was one of the Catholic lads of the Thirteenth bleed¬ 
ing in many places from a number of wounds. He 
had stepped out from the cave for a minute and had 
been caught in the enemy fire. “Is it long since you’ve 
been to confession, lad?” I said. He looked at me 
through clear eyes, though he was in great pain. “Just 
about an hour ago, Father,” he said. The doctor 
whispered in my ear, “He’s going, Padre,” so I put 
on my stole and prepared the lad for death. I always 
carried the Holy Oils in my pocket. Just as I finished 
anointing the dying soldier one of his friends was ad¬ 
mitted for a last word. 

“What will I tell your people at home?” asked the 
friend, who was a Protestant. 

“Tell them—” he labored a little for breath — 
“tell them,” he repeated, “I had the priest!” 

Shortly afterwards he was taken by ambulance to 
the Field Ambulance at Agnez-lez-Duisans, and the 
following morning he died. 

I returned to New Plymouth cave and there I found 
Father Sheehan very busy, for the Fourteenth Battal¬ 
ion was now coming. We heard them quickly, how¬ 
ever, as it was but a few days since they had come 
to confession at Chateau de la Ilaie. 

That evening, after the last man had left, Father 




THE RED VINEYARD 


175 


Sheehan came over to me. “Father,” he said, “wasn’t 
it a great day’s work?” 

I could scarcely speak for the great joy I felt. 
There had been such consolation throughout the whole 
day! Great things had been done for our Divine Lord, 
who had waited all day long in the dimly-lighted cave, 
giving His deep, sweet peace to the souls of these lads 
of “good will.” Centuries before He had come to 
another cave, when “glad tidings” had been an¬ 
nounced to the shepherds. 

“Yes, Father,” I said, “it was one of the happiest 
days of my life.” 

Then, simultaneously, we thought of the things of 
earth. It was time to go back to Agnez-les-Duisans, 
for, with the exception of one slice of bread and mar¬ 
garine between us, we had eaten nothing since early 
morning. It was now evening. 

The following morning while at breakfast a letter 
from headquarters was given to me by the waiter. I 
opened it quickly: It read, “Capt. the Rev. R. M. 
Crochetiere was killed in action April 2nd, near Bail- 
leulmont. ” This place was just a little to the south 
of Arras. Not a year before he had sung the great 
open-air Mass at Witley Camp when the Catholic sol¬ 
diers had been consecrated to the Sacred Heart. Just 
yesterday he had gone home to the Sacred Heart to 
receive the reward of his stewardship. I sat back 
from the breakfast table and wondered who would 
be next. Then I went down to the convent. 

Almost every morning I went down to the convent, 
for there was a lovely garden there where I could 





176 


THE RED VINEYARD 


walk up and down under the trees and read my Bre¬ 
viary. Often as I passed through the court before 
the main building, on my way to the garden, I paused 
before a beautiful statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. 
The base of the statue was surrounded by a wide 
circle of green lawn, bordering which was a fringe of 
forget-me-nots, planted very likely by the good Sis¬ 
ters as a symbol of their devotion to the Sacred Heart. 
Every morning the children whom the Sisters taught 
before they went away came to the convent and asked 
a young woman — a kind of lay-Sister who came daily 
to do some work about the building — when the Sis¬ 
ters were coming back. “Very soon, perhaps — to¬ 
morrow, perhaps.” And the little ones would stay 
through the morning and play till they were tired; 
then they would sit on the low benches and sing in 
their sweet childish voices the beautiful hymns that 
the Sisters had taught them. 

The presence of the sky-blue, yellow-centered forget- 
me-nots always brought to my mind the love of the 
Sisters for the Sacred Heart; the sound of the chil¬ 
dren’s voices in the morning always brought to my 
mind the love of the children for the Sisters. 

Just beyond the convent, on the other side of the 
Scarpe River, which here was only about six feet wide, 
was a group of Nissen huts that had up to a few 
weeks before been used as a Casualty Clearing Station, 
but at the beginning of the German advance the pa¬ 
tients and staff had been removed. Now it was being 
used by a Field Ambulance for dressing wounds or 
some emergency operation of casualties from the Arras 



THE RED VINEYARD 


177 


front. Father Whiteside, an English chaplain, was 
on duty here, though usually he called me when 
any of my Canadian lads came in. Across the road 
from the Field Ambulance was a large military ceme¬ 
tery where regiments of weary soldiers rested softly, 
each under the shadow of a little white cross. 

It was the following Sunday afternoon that I had 
my first burials in this cemetery. At two o’clock a 
procession of soldiers, mostly kilted laddies from the 
Thirteenth, came slowly up the long aisle of the ceme¬ 
tery: in the lead, following the pipe band that played 
the “Flowers of the Forest,” walked nine groups of 
six men, each carrying shoulder high, one of their late 
comrades who had answered bravely the last call. 
One was an officer, the young knight who had passed 
his vigil in New Plymouth cave. While leading his 
men out of the Ronville caves he had been mortally 
wounded, passing away a few hours afterwards. Of 
the dead, only Captain Waud and the young soldier 
from the Thirteenth whom I had anointed in the cave, 
were Catholics. 

And often as I passed through the court before the 
main building of the convent and paused to look at 
the sweet forget-me-nots fringing the lawn around 
the base of the statue of the Sacred Heart, I recalled 
the two who, among others, had remembered their 
Creator, and I felt now they were not forgotten: 
“Turn to Me and I will turn to thee,” had said the 
Lord. 



178 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter LX 

The Sheehans 

We waited at Agnez-lez-Duisans a few days longer, 
but “old Fritz” did not strike on the Arras front, 
though all the world knows that he continued to gain 
elsewhere. Two or three times during the week, 
Father Sheehan went up to Arras with a quantity 
of provisions to two Poor Clare Sisters who lived on 
in the basement of their ruined convent in order to 
pay court to their King. 

In the evening we were kept busy hearing confes¬ 
sions and giving Holy Communion to soldiers in the 
parish church. One evening when we had heard the 
confessions of all the men present, I stepped into the 
sacristy to say a word to Father Sheehan, who was 
just going out to give Holy Communion. 

“Ah, Father!” he said in his gentle, friendly man¬ 
ner, “I am glad you came in. Will you please go 
down there to Pat and tell him not to go to Com¬ 
munion now. You see, Father, he was there this 
morning, and he’s such a pious lad that when he sees 
the others going to the rails, he might forget that he 
was there this morning and go up again.” 

“All right, Father,” I said, but somehow or other 
I found great difficulty in suppressing a strong inclina¬ 
tion to smile as I walked down the flagged aisle of 
the church. Pat — Father Sheehan had pointed him 
out to 'me — who was intently reading his prayer- 
book, looked up kindly at me as I drew near. “God 



THE RED VINEYARD 


179 


bless yon, Father,” he whispered, as I stooped over 
him and he disposed himself elaborately to listen. It 
actually pained me to keep from laughing as I pre¬ 
pared to deliver my message. 

“Pat,” I said, “Father Sheehan sent me to tell 
you not to go to Communion again. He is afraid 
that you might forget you were there this morning 
and go back again.” 

Pat just looked at his book and shook his head as 
he smiled indulgently. Then he looked at me, still 
smiling, “Shure, Father dear, I had no intention of 
going again!” Then he said, as if to himself, “God 
bless Father Sheehan!” 

Pat’s words were echoed strongly in my heart; for 
every one that met Father Sheehan would feel like 
wishing him the very best they could, and what is 
better than the blessing of God? 

Just about this time I received from my mother a 
birthday present, which had been delayed along the 
way. It was a large volume entitled “Canon Sheehan 
of Doneraile,” by Father Heuser. I had long en¬ 
joyed the works of the gentle Canon, and I had al¬ 
ways felt that I owed a lot to this seer and prophet. 
I had long wanted to read the life of one who had made 
many such unerring prophesies as the following some 
twenty years before the signing of the Armistice: 

“Meanwhile, the new Paganism, called modern 
civilization, is working out its own destruction and 
solving its own problems. There are subterranean 
mutterings of a future upheaval that will change the 
map of the world as effectually as did an irruption of 




180 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Vandals or Visigoths. In the self-degradation of 
women; in the angry disputes between Labor and 
Capital; in the dreams of Socialists, and the sanguin¬ 
ary ambitions of Nihilists; in the attitude of the great 
Powers to each other, snarling and afraid to bite; in 
the irreverence and flippancy of the age manifested 
towards the most sacred and solemn subjects, in the 
destructive attempts of philosophers, in the elimination 
of the supernatural, in the concentration of all hu¬ 
man thought upon the fleeting concerns of this life, 
and the covert, yet hardly concealed, denial of a life 
to come; in the rage for wealth, in the almost insane 
dread of poverty — and all these evil things per¬ 
meating and penetrating into every class — there is 
visible to the most ordinary mortal a disintegration of 
society that can only eventuate in such ruin as have 
made Babylon and Nineveh almost historical myths, 
and has made a proverb and by-word even of Imperial 
Rome. Where is the remedy? Clearly, Christianity; 
and still more clearly the only Christianity that is 
possible, and can bear the solvent influence of the new 
civilization. Nothing but the poverty of Christ, mani¬ 
fested in the self-abandonment of our religious com¬ 
munities; the awful purity of Christ, continued in a 
celibate priesthood and the white sanctity of our nuns; 
the self-denial and immolation of Christ, shown again 
wherever the sacrificial instinct is manifested in our 
martyrs and missionaries; the love of Christ, as ex¬ 
hibited in our charge of the orphaned, the abandoned, 
the profligate, the diseased, the leprous and insane — 
can lead back the vast masses of erring humanity to 



THE RED VINEYARD 


181 


the condition not only of stability, bnt of the fruition 
of perfect peace. For what is the great political maxim 
of government but the greatest good to the greatest 
number — in other words, the voluntary sacrifice of 
the individual for the welfare of the Commonwealth? 
And where is that seen but in the ranks of the obscure 
and hidden, the unknown and despised (unknown and 
despised by themselves above all) members of the 
Catholic church.” 

I took the book down to the convent to show it to 
Father Sheehan. To my question if he had ever met 
Canon Sheehan, looking at me in that quizzical half 
smiling way that one regards a questioner when the 
information to be given far exceeds that asked, he 
said: “Yes, I have met him. I knew him, and he was 
mv cousin.” 


Chapter LXI 

Ecoivres 

April was passing quickly. Very early in the morn¬ 
ing, from the old trees about the convent, one heard 
the sweet, clear call of many birds; the leaves were 
unfolding; the fresh, revivifying odors of ne\v grass 
and early spring flowers were in the air. All around 
us were signs of destruction by the ingenuity of man; 
yet nature was steadfastly following her laws, restor¬ 
ing, expanding, and quickening to new life — and 



182 


THE RED VINEYARD 


cheering wonderfully many tired and war-weary men. 

On all sides Fritz was making advances, but we 
were holding him at Arras. I made frequent visits 
to this City of the Dead, and every time I passed 
through its gates — Arras is a walled city — an appall¬ 
ing sense of loneliness gripped me. Only seventy 
people of the thirty thousand inhabitants remained; 
and to see, now and then, a solitary civilian moving 
along the street, or about some shattered dwelling- 
place, only emphasized the awful stillness. I visited 
the ruins of the great cathedral and saw the statue 
of Our Lady standing unscathed in her little side 
chapel. I walked through the corridors of the shat¬ 
tered seminary, where for many years young French¬ 
men had walked silently, listening to the voice of the 
Spirit of God, forming them for the work of the holy 
ministry. The young men who should now be here 
were in the trenches, clad in the light-blue uniform 
of the soldiers of France. 

Not far from the seminary, in the basement of their 
shattered convent, lived two Poor Clare nuns who had 
remained to adore our Divine Lord on the altar. I 
do not know how it had been arranged, but there was 
Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament in 
that poor cellar. Perhaps it was for this reason that 
the Canadians held Arras. It was to these holy 
women of France that Father Sheehan made many 
visits, carrying pieces of meat, rolls of bread, etc. 
The quartermaster of the unit from which he drew 
rations was an Irishman, and many of the lads gladly 



THE RED VINEYARD 


183 


stinted themselves so that he could lay by a little 
food for the Poor Clare Sisters at Arras. 

Then, one day just after lunch, orders came to move. 
We were not going very far away — only to the little 
village of Ecoivres at the base of Mt. St. Eloi, about 
five or six kilometers distant. I stayed with Father 
Sheehan for tea, and at four o’clock left alone for 
Ecoivres. I had never been there before, but Father 
Sheehan had given me minute directions and I knew 
I would have no difficulty finding the large chateau 
of the village. 

I had not gone more than a mile on my way when 
I noticed shells dropping into many of the little vil¬ 
lages that lay scattered over the green countryside 
before me. I must pass through two of these villages 
before arriving at my destination. I suspected some 
big attack on the part of the Germans, as it was their 
invariable custom to shell heavily the back areas In 
order to prevent us from bringing up fresh troops. 
As I was revolving in my mind how pleasant it was 
going to be for me to run the gauntlet of fire, I heard 
the terrifying shriek of a shell, and as I turned, was 
just in time to see a great black shell burst only a 
few feet behind me. A group of men had been stand¬ 
ing on the road-side but not one was hit. I stood for 
a few moments dazed by the suddenness of it all, 
my ears ringing from the terrible explosion, while 
teams drawing general service wagons galloped noisily 
by and men ran like startled hares towards points of 
safety. Presently I continued my walk, every nerve 




184 


THE RED VINEYARD 


tense, expecting another shell-burst. None came, how¬ 
ever. 

I passed through the two villages and no shell 
dropped near me till I came to the outskirts of 
Ecoivres, then shell after shell came screaming through 
the air, exploding in the high bank that sloped up 
from the roadside. A few soldiers coming behind me 
on bicycles dismounted and crouched low as each 
one tore its way across our road. I felt sick, dazed 
and frightened and whenever the others crouched, I 
did also; but we reached the little town in safety. 

I passed the church, which was untouched, though 
many stone buildings about it were almost completely 
demolished. Then I came into the court before the 
chateau, where a great number of soldiers were quar¬ 
tered. 

It was an old chateau, the ancestral home of a long 
line of French counts, which had been commandeered 
early in the war. The present owner, however, still 
had a room or two allotted to him. I went up an old 
winding stairway and walked from the landing along 
the hall till I came to a great wide room where a num¬ 
ber of officers of different battalions of my brigade 
stood talking in little groups. They greeted me with 
true military friendliness, but I could see that they 
were restless and ill at ease. Fritz had struck again 
and broken the British line, taking many prisoners 
and great quantities of supplies. And as the officers 
talked, shells screamed into the village. 

Just before dinner George came to the mess and 
his face lighted up when he saw me. He had come 



THE RED VINEYARD 


185 


before me by a different route, and some of his com¬ 
panions — although none of our own brigade — had 
been killed, together with a number of horses. There 
was in George’s eye that hurt, dazed look that I was 
to see so often in the eyes of men when the shells 
screamed by and took toll of their companions. George 
told me I was to be billeted in a large room with a 
number of other officers. While he was speaking, 
however, the billeting officer joined us to say that he 
had a fine billet for me; it was a little hut outside in 
the grounds. It had been reserved for the colonel, 
but as he wished to remain in the chateau, the billet¬ 
ing officer, remembering that I preferred, when pos¬ 
sible, to have a billet alone, so that the men might 
the more easily come to see me, had given me the 
little hut. 

After dinner, which was late that evening, I went 
down through the chateau grounds, crossed a bridge 
over a small river that ran through them and followed 
the road until I came to a little burlap hut built on 
the river bank under the willow trees, that had just 
hung out their fresh green draperies. And as I stood 
surveying my billet, I became aware that the shelling 
had ceased; the stars were coming out; just the faint¬ 
est rustle sounded among the tree-tops; there was a 
very pleasant tinkle and gurgle from the running 
water; from all around the wide green grounds came 
the low murmur of talking from groups of soldiers 
bivouacked here and there under the trees. George 
came up presently with four or five letters and a box 
of caramels that had come with the Canadian mail. 



186 


THE RED VINEYARD 


It was one of those strange interludes that came fairly 
often during the campaign, when one actually forgot 
for a little while war and its gruesomeness. 

In the morning, after a very pleasant night’s sleep 
by the softly running waters, I went down to the 
parish church to say Mass. The cure was a large man 
and very kind; evidently the billeting officer had tried 
to place me with him, for he took great pains to ex¬ 
plain to me that his house was extremely small, and 
already it was full on account of the presence of some 
of his relations who had been evacuated from the 
Arras area. 

I told the cure how pleasantly I was situated, and 
that the softly running water had sent me to sleep. 
He smiled, helped me to put on my vestments and then 
served my Mass. After Mass, as I made my thanks¬ 
giving before the altar, I noticed on the Gospel side a 
large alcove. In it were five or six prie-dieux, and a 
communion rail ran the width of it. It was somewhat 
similar to a box in a theatre. On the wall in the al¬ 
cove opposite to where I knelt was a large copper slab 
bearing the inscription: 

To the Memory of 
M. Edward Mary Alexander 
Viscount of Brandt of Calometz 
Died in his castle of Ecoivres 
the 9th. October 1894 
R. I. P. 

I concluded that this was the part of the church 
where the people of the chateau came to assist at 
Mass in the old days before France printed on her 





THE RED VINEYARD 


187 


coins “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.” I saw tlie 
present owner of the estate a few days later, and I 
wondered if he sat in the alcove to assist at Mass on 
Sundays. He was a tall, heavily built man in old 
rough clothes, and looked more like a laborer one 
would see sitting idly about the docks. He had a 
large, heavy red face and a thick black mustache. 
When I saw him first he stood facing a pointed bayo¬ 
net — though he kept at least three feet from the 
point — and an angry sentry at the entrance to the 
chateau was telling him in English that he could not 
enter. The owner of the chateau, still more angry 
than the guard, shouted in French that he would 
enter; that these were his grounds, though his man¬ 
ner of putting in practice his words resembled more 
the advancing of a horse on a treadmill. I was about 
to offer my services as interpreter and general peace¬ 
maker when an officer approached the angry guard 
and told him that it was the owner of the chateau 
whom he was keeping from entering. The guard 
sprang to attention, and as the angry owner entered 
his grounds looked after him sheepishly. “Well, Holy 
Moses!” he exclaimed. 



188 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter LXII 

Ecurie Wood 

I had expected to stay at Ecoivres for Sunday, and 
I had arranged with the cure for the soldiers’ Mass, 
but on Saturday orders came for us to move to Ecurie 
Wood. It was not very far away, about three miles. 
My billet here was a corrugated iron hut, barricaded 
without on all sides with sand-bags piled about three 
feet high and two wide. There was no floor other 
than the natural earth. The seat of a general service 
wagon, that very likely had succumbed to Fritz’s shell¬ 
ing, had been converted into a very serviceable chair; 
on a high bedding of mud and rocks was placed hori¬ 
zontally an empty five-gallon gasoline tin, from which 
pointed heavenwards, thrjough the low) roof, some 
homemade stove pipe. There was no door on this im¬ 
provised stove. When I entered the hut a fire of char¬ 
coal and small pieces of wood glowed in the opening 
of the tin, which the chair faced. There was no 
church near us, but there was a large moving picture 
hut just about two hundred yards away where Mass 
was said on Sundays; and only fifty yards from this 
was a small square tent, with the words “Catholic 
Chapel” painted in black on it, where a priest was 
on duty every evening to hear confessions. As there 
was no church near where the Blessed Sacrament was 
reserved, I now began to carry Our Lord with me. 
On Monday I consecrated about two hundred particles 
in my small military ciborium, and always, day and 



THE RED VINEYARD 


189 


night, in the pocket of my tunic was the little ciborium 
where Jesus dwelt. And in the evenings I used to go 
down to the chapel tent, place the ciborium on a cor¬ 
poral spread out on the rough board table and, say¬ 
ing a short prayer, sit on an empty box to hear the 
confessions of the men who came. We were in a 
very exposed territory and shells were continuously 
dropping into our area. Sometimes the shells would 
come so near us that I would sit on my box, or kneel 
before the Blessed Sacrament, trembling, expecting 
each moment to be my last. 

A great number of men were assembling in the 
Ecurie Wood area, and I began to meet many old 
friends. Some of the lads who had come overseas 
with me were in battalions quartered nearby; and 
just over the hill, in the military cemetery of Roc- 
lincourt, Lt. Lawlor, one of my Catholic officers and 
a very gallant soldier, slept softly under his white 
cross. 

The work at Ecurie Wood was very consoling: won¬ 
derful things happened in that little white chapel tent. 
One night a great giant of a man stepped in, and with¬ 
out any introduction said, simply: “Father, I want 
to be christened/’ I could not help laughing, for in 
my mind always associated with the word “christen’' 
were thoughts of tiny, white-clad helpless babies be¬ 
ing carried to the baptismal font. But the big giant 
did not laugh. It was a very serious matter for him. 

I asked him to which religion he belonged. He 
said he belonged to none, but that his people had been 
Presbyterians. I commenced instructions and in a 






190 


THE RED VINEYARD 


short time I had the great pleasure of baptizing him 
in the little tent. 

Sometimes men would come back to the sacraments 
after years of absence, and it was wonderful to watch 
the effects of Divine Grace in their souls. Often they 
would come back to the tent to have a chat and to 
speak of some fellow with whom they were trying to 
share their own great happiness. Frequently a re¬ 
turned prodigal would say to me: “Now, Father, I 
have a lad outside who hasn’t been to his duties for 
many years. I got him to come down tonight. I’m 
just telling you this, Father, for he’s got the ‘wind up’ 
pretty bad, but I know you’ll take him easy, Father.” 
Then perhaps a big, slow moving, puzzled figure would 
step into the tent, looking around mystified, not know¬ 
ing what to do next. Then I would beckon him to 
come and kneel down, and then — I would “take him 
easy.” 

One night, when I was sitting on my box, a large 
one placed near me, against which the men might 
kneel when telling their little story, a man came rush¬ 
ing in and knelt so suddenly that he knocked over the 
larger box, and then fell on it as it reached the ground. 

I stood up quickly, taking off my purple stole as I 
did so, and as the poor fellow got slowly up I said: 
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” 

He looked at me in a dazed sort of way, and then 
over his shoulder towards the open flap of the tent. 
“I’m willing to go, Father,” he said. 

“I think you’re a little too eager to go,” I said. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


191 


“There’s no need, yon know, to knock over that box. 
I put that there for men to kneel against.” 

“Well,” he replied, “I’m willing to go, but I want 
a little time to get ready. It’s a long time since I was 
here before, and I need a little time to overhaul my 
mind.” 

I could not help laughing, though I felt there was 
something wrong somewhere. “Well,” I said, “what 
made you come in if you were not prepared?” 

Again he looked over his shoulder, and as he did 
the truth began to dawn upon me. “Father,” he said, 
“I was pushed in.” 

“Kneel down,” I said, “and take all the time you 
need, and when you are ready just call me. I am go¬ 
ing outside for a while.” 

I went out and in a few minutes three figures came 
noiselessly over to where I was standing. “Is he go¬ 
ing to go, Father?” one of them asked. “He is,” I 
replied, “but he needs a little time to prepare. Why 
did you send — I should say push — him in before he 
was ready to go?” 

They then told me that it was fifteen years since the 
man had been to confession, and that he had been brag¬ 
ging about not having been there for that length of 
time. One of the number had told him three days be¬ 
fore to prepare and on account of this they had thought 
him ready to go. 

I think, on the whole, these lay apostles did excellent 
work; still, now and then, there was an example of 
perhaps too great zeal. Father Miles Tompkins re¬ 
lates a story which perhaps showed a little overzeal. 




192 


THE RED VINEYARD 


He was walking with Father McGillvary one day up 
and down before a little church of a village where 
troops were quartered when he noticed three khaki- 
clad figures coming towards them. His first thought 
was that some poor fellow had imbibed too freely of 
“ vin blink” — the soldiers’ name for the white wine — 
and that two charitable comrades were escorting him 
to his billet. When, however, the soldiers drew nearer, 
he saw that the man was not intoxicated, though some¬ 
what indignant at being hustled so unceremoniously 
by two comrades who did not bear the insignia of 
military police. When they were within speaking dis¬ 
tance Father Tompkins asked one of the escort what 
was the matter. “Father,” they said, as they looked 
at their struggling victim, “this fellow wants to go to 
confession.” 

“Well,” said Father Tompkins, “he does not look 
very much as if he wanted to go!” 


Chapter LXIII 

The Different Dispensers 

The Thirteenth and Fifteenth Battalions were at An- 
zin, a small village about three kilometers distant from 
Ecurie Wood. There was a little brick church here 
with a great hole through the base of its tower. I 
used to go down there on my bicycle early Sunday 
mornings and hear confessions while Father Pickett, 



THE RED VINEYARD 


193 


of the First Divisional Artillery, said Mass for my lads. 
Then I would ride back to Ecurie Wood and say Mass 
at half-past ten for the Fourteenth and Sixteenth. 
There were now three other priests quartered at Ecurie 
Wood and these would hear confessions during my 
Mass. In the evenings the priests would assemble in 
my hut — for, it seemed, I had the best billet in the 
area — and talk over many things. It was not often 
so many chaplains were together, and I, for one, en¬ 
joyed these pleasant evenings in the little hut before 
the blazing fire. It was a very dangerous area, how¬ 
ever ; shells were dropping all over the camp and there 
was great loss of life. One morning on awakening 
from a very sound sleep a shell came shrieking through 
the air, then the deafening explosion as it struck just 
outside my hut. I waited, scarcely breathing, for the 
next, but no more came. When I was dressed, I step¬ 
ped off the distance from my hut to where the shell 
had struck. It was just thirteen steps. They were be¬ 
ginning to come very near! 

Those gatherings of chaplains in my corrugated iron 
hut there on the Western Front were unique. I often 
used to think of it in the evenings as we talked, or 
when some chaplain read excerpts from a Canadian 
paper that had come from home. It was this — that 
while we talked away so casually about the ordinary 
daily affairs of the world, in the pocket of every one 
present dwelt humbly Our Eucharistic Lord in his 
little home, the ciborium. 

One afternoon while I was sitting in my hut, alter¬ 
nately reading my book and looking into the fire, a 



194 


THE RED VINEYARD 


knock sounded on the door and a^ young officer walked 
in, smiling broadly. He was a lieutenant in the ar¬ 
tillery. I had known him when he was a little boy 
and I was in senior philosophy at college. I had not 
seen him for ten years till I met him at the front. After 
we had talked for a while, he asked me if he could go 
to confession. 

I put on my purple stole and sat down on the large 
general service wagon seat, while he knelt down on 
the earth floor — over which at times I saw worms 
moving — and he began his little tale. Often, in our 
old college days, when I was walking slowly on the 
track of the athletic field he had come running up 
quickly behind me, given me a punch on the back, and 
then had skipped ahead of me, smiling pleasantly as 
he waited for me to catch up to him. Now he knelt 
humbly on the earth and confessed his sins, and I, 
with all the powers of the priesthood, absolved him! 

It was with great joy in my heart that I arranged 
my little portable altar on a box, spread out the clean 
white corporal and gave him Holy Communion. 

After I had closed the altar and the young lieuten¬ 
ant had finished his thanksgiving, we sat on the seat. 
He was the first to speak. “Father,” he said, “these 
are strange times we are living in.” 

I agreed with him, and among other things thought 
of the shell that had dropped just thirteen steps from 
where we sat; but he was not thinking of shells. 

“Three weeks ago,” he said, “I was in Rome on 
leave, and on Easter Sunday all the Catholic officers 
in the city had permission to assist at Mass in the Sis- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


195 


tine Chapel and receive Holy Communion from the 
hand of Pope Benedict XV, amidst great splendor 
and solemnity. Today, kneeling on the earth, I re¬ 
ceived Our Lord in this little corrugated iron hut on 
the Western Front!” 

I did not speak for awhile; some strange emotion 
held me silent as I visualized the two scenes. Easter 
in Rome, in one of the most beautiful chapels in the 
world, the Pope in the richest vestments, assisted by 
many priests, giving Holy Communion. Then, a small, 
dark hut, with not even a window in it, and no cover¬ 
ing over the clay floor, the priest in a wrinkled khaki 
uniform and heavy trench boots, his only vestment a 
small white stole worn over his tunic — yet, in each 
case Jesus had come to the young officer! 


Chapter LXIV 

Incapacitated 

The work at Ecurie Wood was most consoling, but 
the shelling was incessant and we were having many 
funerals in the military cemetery down the hill at 
Roclincourt. The Fourteenth Battalion suffered most. 
Early one morning a shell burst in the headquarters 
hut, wounding the colonel, killing the second in com¬ 
mand and the adjutant, and disabling other officers 
and privates. The whole camp was under observa¬ 
tion and Fritz was doing deadly work. 



196 


THE RED VINEYARD 


One Sunday morning, as I prepared for the Holy 
Sacrifice, I seemed to feel much better than I had felt 
for some time; and as I preached, the words came 
quickly and without any great effort. I wondered 
why I should feel so well. But after Mass, as I walked 
back to my hut after having seen so many of those 
wonderful lads receive Holy Communion, I raised my 
hand to my forehead; it was very warm and the day 
was cool — in fact, a fine mist of rain was falling. I 
now began to feel slightly dizzy and more inclined to 
rest on my camp bed than to drink my cup of tea. 

George came in, looked at me once, placed the cup 
of tea beside me on the seat, looked at me again, and 
then told me I didn’t look very well. I told him I 
did not feel very well. Both agreed that I would be 
better in bed, so I went. 

The corporal of the stretcher-bearers came in, shook 
his little thermometer, looked at it, shook it again, 
then told me to open my mouth. He placed it under 
my tongue. Then, while I looked at the ceiling of the 
hut, he waited. 

“One hundred and two,” said the corporal. 

“Is that high?” I asked, for I could not remember 
ever having my temperature taken before. 

“High enough,” he said. Then he told me I had a 
malady that was becoming very prevalent in the army. 
He did not know what to call it. Later, it was called 
the “flu.” 

I remained in bed for nearly a week, and it was one 
of the finest weeks I spent in the army; so many offi¬ 
cers and men came into the little hut to see me. I 



THE BED VINEYARD 


197 


was just beginning to understand the charity of the 
army. 

Just as I was getting about again the Fifty-first 
Division of Scotch Highlanders came into our area. 
This was the division that had met almost every ad¬ 
vance of the enemy, so that even the Germans them¬ 
selves could not but admire them. A sergeant in one 
of the battalions of the division possessed a paper for 
which he had refused six pounds: for the paper had 
been dropped into their lines from a German airplane, 
and this is what was written on it: “Good old Fifty- 
first still sticking it! Cheerio!” 


Chapter LXV 

Anzin and Monchy Breton 

The Fifty-first “took over” from us and we went 
to Anzin. Here it was much quieter and the battalion 
prepared to rest. I took charge of the village church, 
for I was the only chaplain in the area. The first day 
I swept it out and dusted the altar and sanctuary-rail. 
The next morning I said Mass, and after Mass a little 
sanctuary lamp twinkled softly before the altar. The 
Guest had come! 

There was a beautiful statue of Our Lady in the 
church, and as it was her month I decorated it as well 
as I could. A long walk by the Scarpe River, which 
flowed its narrow though very pretty way through 



198 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Anzin, brought me to the grounds of what had once 
been a very fine country residence, now terribly bat¬ 
tered from sliell-fire. The road that led to it sloped 
up from the river, and as I walked along it, this beau¬ 
tiful May day, from the dark recesses of the trees came 
the repeated solitary call of the cuckoo. I stopped to 
listen. The whole countryside seemed very quiet and 
peaceful, save for the faint rumble, from far away, of 
our guns. 

Though the grounds were pitted in different places 
with old shell-holes, many flowers grew in the garden. 
I picked some white lilacs, although the season for 
these was now growing late, and a large bunch of 
Parma violets. It was very quiet and still there in 
the old French garden, but I could hear German shells 
whining through the air and dropping in a little village 
not very far away. 

Somewhere along the line battles were being fought, 
and I supposed the British were losing ground and 
that many men were being taken prisoners. Up to 
this time we Canadians had not lost any men as prison¬ 
ers and had given no ground except a mile in depth 
near Neuville-Vitasse when we found ourselves placed 
in a very dangerous position by the general retreat of 
British troops, which in some places was more than 
twenty miles in depth. 

Towards the end of May good news came to us. We 
were going back to rest. And it was to be a long rest, 
among green fields, far from the sound of the guns 
and the sights of the battlefield. 

It was Saturday when we arrived in our rest billets 



THE RED VINEYARD 


199 


after a long march through a peaceful countryside. 
My battalions were scattered in four different villages 
and I was very busy Saturday afternoon arranging 
for Masses. Up to this time our rest billets had been 
always in mining towns or districts, but now we had 
come to one of the most beautiful countrysides I had 
ever seen. Open, unfenced farmlands stretched before 
us, while here and there clumps of ancient wide-spread¬ 
ing trees, almost hiding from view the little white- 
walled, red-roofed houses beneath them, rose as dark- 
green islands in a light-green sea. The memory of 
that Saturday afternoon is very vivid with me yet. 
It had been a warm day and the long, dusty march 
had been most fatiguing. I was finding some difficulty 
in arranging hours for Masses, and towards three 
o’clock I dismounted from my bicycle, sat by the road¬ 
side and wiped my forehead. Everything was in¬ 
tensely quiet; a Sabbath-day stillness was over all the 
land. It seemed more like a beautiful dream than a 
reality. For months I had been in the gruesome at¬ 
mosphere of war, gazing on broken villages, torn roads 
and ruined farmlands, walking always in danger and 
“in the shadow of death” through a country utterly 
desolate, and foully marred by the ingenuity of men. 
Now my eye was being filled with the beauty of all 
things around me, of the wonderful things of God. 

I picked a wild flower of a variety that grew in pro¬ 
fusion along the roadside. It was about one-third the 
size of a morning-glory and somewhat similar in 
shape. It was white, and so delicate that it seemed 
almost transparent. As I gazed on its wonderful for- 



200 


THE RED VINEYARD 


mation, my mind dwelt on God and all the beautiful 
things He had created; then my thoughts were of the 
soul and then of my men. Presently the plan of my 
sermon for the following day was mentally outlined. 

It was twelve o ’clock Saturday night when I finished 
my work. 


Chapter LXYI 

A New Sheep 

I awoke the next morning to the sweet sounds of 
singing birds; to the glorious view of fresh green 
fields and peaceful lanes. I rode about three miles 
on my bicycle to a hamlet called Bailleul-aux-Cor- 
nailles where I said Mass at nine o’clock for the Thir¬ 
teenth Battalion, which was quartered here, and a 
great number of the French civilian population. The 
cure of the parish was a soldier in the French army 
and was on duty in a large military hospital at St. 
Paul, about fifteen miles away. I made arrangements 
to be at the parish church certain evenings in the week 
for confessions. After this Mass I rode four miles fur¬ 
ther to Ostreville, where I said Mass for the Four¬ 
teenth, which was quartered here. The men were all 
there when I arrived. I found them sitting in the 
cemetery under century-old trees or along the low 
stone fence. I preached the same sermon that I had 
preached for the Thirteenth and it made a remarkable 



THE RED VINEYARD 


201 


impression upon them. First I spoke to them briefly 
of the awful scenes we had been witnessing for some 
time; then I dwelt on the wonderful beauty and peace 
all around us. God had made the whole world beauti¬ 
ful; we had seen how foully men had marred it. But 
God’s masterpiece of beauty was our own soul, and 
each one of us knew just how much we had marred 
that beauty. Then I told those lads that perhaps there 
were some amongst us who had stained greatly their 
immortal souls, who had done things for which certain 
of their friends might despise them, might turn them 
down. But God, in His infinite love, would not turn 
them down. God was ready to receive them, to blot out 
all their iniquities, to cleanse them, to make their souls 
beautiful again. As I continued, I saw a wonderful 
sight. I saw tears in the eyes of big, strong men, I 
saw them bowing their heads as they reached for their 
khaki handkerchiefs. It was one of the strangest and 
sweetest experiences I had in the war. 

After Mass, when I had got just beyond the village, 
I dismounted, sat on the side of the road and began to 
eat the luncheon I had brought — some sandwiches of 
cheese and jam and a water-bottle full of cocoa. Rye 
was growing all about me, and it was yet dark green 
in color. After I had finished my luncheon, I stood 
up to measure it, and found that it was almost as tall 
as I. It must have been at least five feet in height. 
Two or three weeks later I walked along a path through 
a field of rye which was so high that I could see only 
the stalks on either side of me and the heads just 
above me. 



202 


THE RED VINEYARD 


On Monday I learned that we were out for a long 
rest. Our program included drilling in the mornings 
and games in the afternoon. From the nature of the 
drilling it was clear to all of us that we were training 
for an attack on Fritz. Part of the morning the men 
followed the tanks that clanked their ungainly way 
through beautiful fields of rye and wheat. We did 
not know till August why they were so ruthlessly des¬ 
troyed. 

One evening while I was sitting in the very small 
room which was my billet, a stout, red-faced soldier 
in a rather soiled uniform came in to see me. He 
saluted and I waited for him to state his business. 

“Father/’ he said, “I should like to become a Cath¬ 
olic.” 

“Going to be married?” I questioned. 

An amused smile stole quietly over his face as he 
replied: “No, Father. I am already married and have 
five children.” 

Then it was my turn to smile. I had judged him to 
be about twenty-two or twenty-three, but now I noticed 
that his hair was turning grey about the temples. I 
asked him to sit down, which he did, after removing 
his military cap. Then I saw that he was quite bald. 

We commenced instructions, and as the days went 
by I found him very quick to understand the different 
things I explained. Now and then he would ask such 
intelligent questions that I would start involuntarily. 
At last I asked him what he did in civil life. 

“I am a solicitor, Father,” he said quietly. I was 
very much surprised. It had never occurred to me 



THE RED VINEYARD 


203 


that the soldier sitting before me in his greasy uniform 
was a lawyer. On June 7th, in the little church of 
Monchy Breton, I baptized him and received him into 
the church. 


Chapter LXVII 

Notre Dame d’Ardennes 

The soldiers greatly enjoyed the rest in this lovely 
district. It was very pleasant to bicycle through the 
country lanes to quaint churches where Catholic lads 
waited in the evening to go to confession. 

When I heard confessions for the Thirteenth at 
Bailleul-aux-Cornailles, I often stopped in the presby¬ 
tery for tea. The mother and father of the cure lived 
there. Perhaps I should not say tea, for it was always 
milk and bread and honey that the kind old people 
gave me. They had their own apiary in the beautiful 
garden. The priest’s old father was very interesting 
and I enjoyed greatly the stories he told me while he 
sipped his wine and I drank my milk from the large 
white cup. He had lived in Arras before the war and was 
eager to hear what I had to tell him of my experiences 
there. I recall how anxiously he inquired about the 
church of Notre Dame d’Ardennes, whether it had 
been struck. I did not know all the churches of Arras 
by name, but I was very sorry to say that I thought 
nearly every one had been struck by the Germans. I 



204 


THE RED VINEYARD 


could recall but one, which I had passed frequently 
on my way to the railway station (Gare du Nord), 
that had not been struck. I went on to describe it — 
a large red-brick building. 

“That’s it! That’s it!” he cried. “It’s the Church 
of Notre Dame d’Ardennes.” The old man’s eyes 
brightened as he spoke. 

“Well,” I said, “if that is the Church of Notre 
Dame d’Ardennes, you need not worry, for it is still 
standing intact.” 

The old lady, who sat near me, her hand near enough 
to the jug of milk to replenish my cup almost as fast 
as I made room in it for more milk, exchanged looks 
with her husband, and although neither spoke for a 
while, there was such significance in their glances 
that I felt eager to hear the history of Notre Dame 
d’Ardennes. I did not have to wait long, for present¬ 
ly the old man began to speak. As I listened, I held 
the palm of my hand spread wide over the top of my 
cup, for there was still plenty of milk left, and the 
kind old mother of the priest was beaming with hospi¬ 
tality; but I felt I could not drink all the milk in the 
jug! 

During the fourth century — to be exact, in the 
year 371 — there had been a severe famine in Arras. 
The people, being very pious, had recourse to prayer 
and in answer to their supplications manna fell from 
heaven. “The sacred Manna,” as it was called, was 
gathered by the people and for a long time some of 
it was kept and venerated by the people of Notre Dame 
d’Ardennes. Then there was “the holy candle,” kept 



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in the Church of Notre Dame d’Ardennes. During a 
severe epidemic in the year 1105 this wax candle had 
been sent from heaven to Bishop Lambert. After it 
had burned for sometime, the plague stopped. 

I had seen many strange things on the Western 
Front, so that I wondered not that Notre Dame d’Ar¬ 
dennes was unscathed. 

During those beautiful June days from after Mass 
till three o’clock, p. m., I had not much to do. I 
usually read books or wrote a little, while I sat under 
the tall trees in the open field behind the house where 
I was billeted. One afternoon while I was reading 
under the trees a young officer in the tartan of the 
Sixteenth came up to see me. He was a fine looking- 
young fellow and had but lately returned to the battal¬ 
ion after a long absence. He was very downhearted 
and, although not a Catholic, had come to have a talk 
with me. (Non-Catholics often came to have a talk 
with me.) He was a captain and had come back ex¬ 
pecting to hold his old position in the battalion. But, 
at times, promotion is rapid in the army and he found 
that men who were his subordinates when he went 
away were now of equal or superior rank. His posi¬ 
tion was now held by one who had come through many 
conflicts. There was no work for him to do. He felt 
a stranger among these new officers. He was return¬ 
ing to the officers’ reserve. 

I listened quietly till he had told me all his troubles. 
Sometimes it is a relief to have someone listen when 
one’s heart is weighed down, but I am afraid I did 
not say very much that could help him. Had I pos- 



206 


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sessed the gift of foresight, I could have told this 
anxious young officer that before three months the 
officers’ ranks would be so thinned that orders would 
come to him to report for duty immediately at the 
• front. But I did not know then that about the end of 
September I was to meet him again, coming up a shell- 
swept road in a terribly devastated countryside, with 
the eager smile of a boy on his fine young face. 

Just beyond where I was billeted stood a large 
wooden structure that was being used by the Y. M. 
C. A. as a moving picture theatre. In the army the 
name given to these places of amusement was ‘‘cin¬ 
ema.” During the day the concert party of the Six¬ 
teenth was practicing a play, entitled “A Little Bit of 
Shamrock,” one of the chief characters of which was 
a priest. George had spoken to me of the play, for 
he had seen one or two practices. Now, I had seen a 
play staged by this very cast some time before in 
which was portrayed a minister, a most effeminate 
character, whose chief mission, it seemed, was to dis¬ 
play a very great ignorance of life in general. The 
amusement for the audience was furnished by him as 
often as he was shocked or scandalized. The actor 
who had taken the part of the minister was now to 
take the part of the priest. 

I went to the director of the company, who was an 
officer from the Second Division, and told him quietly 
that I had seen the play his company had put on be¬ 
fore, and that I had not admired his clergyman, though 
I thought the actor had done excellent work. I hoped 



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the character of the priest in the forthcoming play 
would not be like that. 

The director looked at me, and I liked the bright 
smile that spread over his pleasant face. “Don’t 
worry, Padre,” he said. “I think yon will like Father 
O’Flynn. I have a lot of friends who are priests. I 
like them. I always like to talk to priests of yonr 
church, Padre. They are — they are — oh, — so hu¬ 
man, Padre.” And then he smiled a guileless smile, 
so that I understood that by ‘human’ the young officer 
had meant something complimentary. 

Many days were to pass before I should see the play. 


Chapter LXVIII 

The Procession 

Sunday within the octave of Corpus Christi was a 
beautiful day. Just before I began Mass for the Thir¬ 
teenth at Bailleul-aux-Cornailles the father of M. le 
Cure came in to see me. The usual great procession 
of the Blessed Sacrament had been planned, but word 
had come from the parish priest that he could not be 
present for Mass, and that very likely he would not 
be able to reach the church in time for the procession, 
which was to start at half-past three in the afternoon. 
If M. le Cure could not come, would M. l’Aumonier have 
the goodness, if it would not inconvenience him too 
much, to carry le Bon Dieu in the procession? 



208 


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I assured the good people that I would be only too 
pleased to have the great honor of carrying the Blessed 
Sacrament in their procession. They promised to send 
a messenger to let me know whether or not the cure 
would come for the procession, as they would have 
definite word by twelve o’clock. 

At one o’clock, while I was taking lunch, a messen¬ 
ger arrived from Bailleul-aux-Cornailles saying that 
M. le Cure could not come for the procession, and that 
the whole parish respectfully requested me to carry 
the Blessed Sacrament. 

When I reached the village for a second time that 
day, I found all along the way evidences of great pre¬ 
parations. On each side of the road approaching the 
church, for a long distance, at intervals of about twenty 
feet, saplings of different trees had been placed so that 
they appeared to be growing there. Little girls, robed 
in white, were flitting along the road, some carrying 
banners, others holding decorated baskets of cut 
flowers. From one side of the road a narrow lane, 
arched darkly by old trees, led to a brightly decorated 
altar under a large Calvary. Just opposite the orderly 
room of the Thirteenth, where the road turned down 
to the village church, a high green arch had been 
erected, and on either side appeared in silver letters 
the words, “Panis Angelicus.” Alongside the arch 
was built another repository. While I was admiring 
this, for there was yet much time, the adjutant of the 
Thirteenth came down from the orderly room and 
asked me the meaning of all the great preparations. 

When I explained as briefly as possible what was 



THE RED VINEYARD 


209 


going to take place, he seemed surprised that I was 
going to take part in the procession. He wondered 
how it happened that I should know what to do among 
these strange people. 

The people were strange, but the religion was not. 

At half-past three, sharp, the procession left the 
church. It was led by a white-surpliced, red-cinctured 
sanctuary boy, carrying the processional cross. Be¬ 
hind him walked about a dozen confreres similarly 
clad; then came the young boys of the parish, with 
white ribbons on their arms. A lad perhaps eleven 
years of age followed, clad in the skins of animals and 
carrying a small cross on which were the words “Ecce 
Agnus Dei. ” The little girls, in snow-white dresses, 
came next, and a few feet behind the column walked 
a young girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, wearing a 
long cream-colored dress with white, gold-bordered 
wings coming out from her shoulders; a band of gold 
encircled her head, to which was attached a gold star 
which shone above her forehead; her right hand was 
raised and the index finger pointed always towards 
the sky. Then came four young girls in white carry¬ 
ing on a pedestal the statue of Our Lady, and four 
others, bearing on high the statue of the Sacred Heart. 
The women of the parish, most of them wearing a 
kind of light-blue badge, were next, followed by the 
men of the parish, with here and there the blue uni¬ 
form of a French soldier home on leave. A few khaki- 
clad lads also walked, but I think they were strangers. 
(I wondered where my lads of the Thirteenth were.) 
Then came the choir of middle-aged men singing 




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hymns that today were being sung over all the world, 
“Lauda Sion Salvatoris,” “Pange Lingua” and “Panis 
Angelicus. ’ ’ Behind these walked six little girls strew¬ 
ing flowers in the way and two sanctuary boys swing¬ 
ing censers. Lastly, came four old men, no caps on 
their venerable heads, bearing on high the white and 
gold canopy over Jesus Host in the great gold mon¬ 
strance, carried by a Canadian priest in the beautiful 
Benediction vestments. 

The vari-colored procession went slowly down the 
village street, banners carried aloft and the beautiful 
old Eucharistic hymns sounding on the summer air, 
while very old people and others who for one reason 
or another could not take part in the procession knelt 
reverently in the dust on the roadside, as Jesus passed. 

Then something happened that had never before hap¬ 
pened in that little village during a procession of the 
Blessed Sacrament. Lining each side of the road for 
quite a distance were men of the Thirteenth Battalion, 
Catholic and Protestant, and as the procession moved 
slowly along in all the sweet simplicity of the deep 
faith of these French peasants, the soldiers stood re¬ 
verently to attention. 

I felt proud of these lads. We had met together in 
many strange places; but I am sure I shall never for¬ 
get those gay, light-hearted lads standing so quietly 
and reverently as we passed — Jesus and I! 



THE RED VINEYARD 


211 


Chapter LXIX 

On Leave 

I had now been in France about one year and had 
had no “leave.” During this period of the war officers 
were entitled to leave every six months. I had not 
applied when the first six months were up, as I was 
too busy at the time. Now I had applied and daily I 
was awaiting my warrant. The Sunday following the 
procession I had just returned home after Mass when 
a runner from headquarters arrived to tell me that 
my warrant had come from brigade headquarters and 
that if I would call at the battalion orderly room and 
sign the necessary papers, I could procure it. 

I left a little place called Tinques at five o’clock and 
although the distance was only fifty miles, it was six 
o’clock the following morning when we arrived at 
Boulogne. The “Pullman” was of the side-door var¬ 
iety ; sometimes it held eight horses and at other times 
forty men. It seemed to me, as we sat so closely packed 
on the floor of the car, as if there were more than 
forty of us. I sat the whole night long with my chin 
almost resting on my knees. It would not do to stand, 
for the space thus made would be quickly filled, so that 
it would be almost impossible to sit down again. Al¬ 
though many miles away from the sound of the guns 
and cheered, furthermore, by the thought of fourteen 
days’ leave, I have always felt that that night-ride was 
one of the hardest of the war, for sitting in that 
cramped position became actually painful. I longed to 




212 


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stretch my limbs, but this was impossible. It was cold 
in the car, for the doors were kept open so that we 
could have air. It is almost incredible how that box¬ 
car bumped us about. But even through these hard¬ 
ships we were compelled to laugh from time to time at 
some witty joke or at some incident that was funny, 
though not meant to be so. Once quite an altercation 
arose between an officer and a private; the officer was 
accusing the soldier of actually putting his feet in the 
officer’s face. The soldier thus accused was protesting 
in a very high-pitched voice: “They ain’t my feet! 
They ain’t my feet!” 

Everybody was laughing. Then came the gruff voice 
of the officer, demanding: “Well, whose feet are they?” 
But nobody seemed to know whose feet they were. 


Chapter LXX 

St. Michael’s Club 

St. Michael’s Club, 38 Grosvenor Gardens, London, 
was an ideal hostel for priests, as it was open only to 
men in Holy Orders. Before the war it had been the 
city residence of Lady Lovat. But shortly after the 
commencement of hostilities it had been rented from 
her by the Duchess of Norfolk and very kindly given 
over as a club for priests. 

Though there were many chaplains in the building 
when I arrived, I was lucky enough to secure an airy 



THE RED VINEYARD 


213 


room. I actually felt like a boy as I took off my haver¬ 
sack and flung it on the bed, after the hall porter had 
left the room. It seemed so good to think that for 
fourteen days the danger of being shot or blown up 
by shell was very remote. Then there were many 
friends and brother priests in the house, and outside 
the door was London, and in London there were lots 
of bookshops, and to a booklover this meant bliss. The 
cathedral was but ten minutes’ walk from the club, 
but we had our own little chapel in the building, and 
the chaplains had the privilege of saying Mass there. 

In the smoking-room, which was on the ground floor, 
there were many large and deep-cushioned armchairs 
that were very comfortable. There was a big open 
fire-place and whenever the weather was damp or 
gloomy outside in the London streets a bright fire 
burned in it; one could count on there being a fire very 
often. Sometimes in the evenings it would be very 
quiet in the great wide room, as the priests sat around 
reading the evening papers, the only sounds being the 
occasional crackle of a newspaper, as it was turned, 
and the purring of the fire. From outside could be 
heard faintly the dull roar of the city, made up of a 
medley of sounds: the rumbling of great elephantine 
busses that bumped along the streets; the whir of 
hundreds of taxis spinning along over the pavement, 
the rattle of wagons and squeaking of innumerable 
horns. Now and then the house would shake very 
slightly, though perceptibly, as far below the base¬ 
ment the cars of the underground railway whizzed 
through the tubes. 



214 


THE RED VINEYARD 


I stayed at the club for four or five days and en¬ 
joyed very much the time spent there. Bishop Fallon, 
a Canadian prelate, whose diocese was London, On¬ 
tario, was staying at the club. He had but recently 
returned from a visit to the Canadian soldiers at the 
front and was soon to go to Rome. I met there, also, 
the chaplain general to the New York state forces, 
Monsignor James N. Connolly. He was a most lovable 
man and I enjoyed talking to him in the evening. He 
was vicar-general to the Catholic chaplain-bishop. He 
gave me his address, Hotel Castiglione, Paris, and told 
me to call on him if I ever visited that city. 

Staying at the club were Irish, English, Scotch, 
American, Australian, New Zealand and Canadian 
priests. And of all the chaplains I found the Ameri¬ 
cans the finest. They were lovable, friendly, broad¬ 
minded men; one needed only to be in the room a few 
seconds till he was on speaking terms with the Ameri¬ 
can priest. There was a certain friendliness about him 
that was irresistible. “I'm Father Whalen, from Du¬ 
buque, Father,” or, “I’m Father Joyce from naval 
headquarters in London, Father,” or, “I’m Father 
Waring from New York City, Father,” would greet 
you on meeting for the first time one of these priests. 
Whereas an English priest would look at you coldly, 
and perhaps say in a chilly voice: “Good-evening, 
Father.” 

Father Knox came up from Bramshott and invited 
me down. He said he had a surprise for me. I won¬ 
dered what it was. Shortly after seeing Father Knox 
I received an invitation to spend a few days at An- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


215 


thony Place, Hindhead, Surrey, the country home of 
Agnes and Egerton Castle, co-authors of many books. 
Hindhead was only about three miles from Bramshott. 
I had visited Anthony Place while there. I promised 
Father Knox to visit Bramshott from Hindhead. 


Chapter LXXI 

Parkminster Again 

Father Knox returned to Bramshott the following 
morning and in the afternoon I left for Parkminster. 
The life at the front had been one of such excitement 
and turmoil and frequent changes that I longed for 
quiet and peace. The very day I left for Parkminster 
Bishop Fallon and party left by auto for Oxford Uni¬ 
versity. They had invited me to accompany them, but 
I had already made arrangements to revisit Parkmin¬ 
ster and did not wish to change my program. I shall 
always feel sorry, however, not only that I missed 
seeing Oxford University, but also that I lost the oppor¬ 
tunity of meeting a number of priests whose names 
Avere then famous in the literary world, among them 
Fathers Martindale, Plater and Ricaby. 

It was a beautiful afternoon when I walked up the 
winding drive that led to the gates of the monastery. 
This time I was greeted as an old friend. But the aged 
monk who had been Retreat Master on my former visit 
did not appear this time. He had been succeeded by 



216 


THE RED VINEYARD 


an alert young English priest who, I think, had but 
lately come to the monastery. I missed greatly the 
dear old priest with whom I had made my former re¬ 
treat. 

This time I did not settle down to the deep quiet 
of the monastery. The year at the front had done its 
work too well, and I now experienced the effects of 
that tension which all who have taken part in the 
World War know so well. A strange restlessness pos¬ 
sessed me, and I felt a distinct relief when my time 
was up. But a little surprise was awaiting me. 

I was told, when about to leave, that the prior wished 
to see me, and so I waited in the parlor till he came. 
He was a very tall man and I think had he followed the 
routine of life that ordinary mortals follow he would 
have been fat. But now he was slight. He was from 
Prance, but had been at Parkminster a number of 
years. He enquired about my work and I related some 
of my military experiences. He took a great interest 
in all I told him, and agreed with me that the war, 
terrible as it was, was bringing many souls back to 
God. When I told him of the procession of the Blessed 
Sacrament at Bailleul-aux-Cornailles his eyes opened 
wide and he looked at me strangely, so that for a 
second or two I became just a little perturbed. 

“Where,” he asked quickly, “did this procession 
take place?” as if he felt he had not heard aright. 

“At Bailleul-aux-Cornailles,” I repeated. 

Then he sat back in his chair and the tense look 
went out of his face and he regarded me smilingly. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


217 


“Why,” he said, “that is my own parish. It was 
there I was born!” 

It was now my turn to be surprised, and I am afraid 
I did not pay very much attention to his words as he 
continued speaking. I just sat there quietly wonder¬ 
ing at the strange things that take place up and down 
the ways of the world. 


Chapter LXXII 

Another Surprise 

From Parkminster I went to Hindhead and I was 
delighted with the cordial reception given me by Mr. 
and Mrs. and Miss Castle. Their home, almost hidden 
from the road, looked down into a valley, and then 
away across a moor that stretched up and over a long, 
high hill. 

I was not the only guest in the house. There was a 
private chapel upstairs, and they had been given the 
rare privilege of having the Blessed Sacrament re¬ 
served in the little tabernacle. Here I said Mass each 
moaning for the household, and nearly all went to 
Holy Communion. 

The following morning I went up to Bramshott to 
see Father Knox. He had now a beautiful chapel built 
near the C. W. L. hut, under the patronage of St. Peter 
and St. Paul; so now the Catholics were no longer 
obliged to use the garrison church hut. After I had 



218 


THE RED VINEYARD 


talked with him for a while, he told me to go alone to 
the hospital, which was just a few hundred feet away. 
Somebody wished to see me in Ward 18, bed 20. “You 
will see what you will see,” said Father Knox enig¬ 
matically, as he followed me to the door. 

This is what I saw after I had entered Ward 18 
and had walked a few steps down the aisle. A young 
fellow was sitting up in bed 20, his finger marking the 
place in a little black book with red edges, his eyes 
smiling a friendly greeting. But who was he? I ap¬ 
proached still nearer. Then I recognized him. It 
was the Spanish lad who had come to Father Knox’s 
room about one year and a half before to tell him that 
he had lost the faith and was no longer a Catholic. 

He seemed glad to see me and held my hand after 
he had shaken it. I also was very pleased to see him, 
for the strained look that I had noticed when I first 
met him had gone from his eyes, and instead there was 
a look of real joy there. The little book he held in his 
hand was “The Imitation of Christ.” 

“It is all right! It is all right!” he kept repeating, 
as he smiled up into my face. “I have gone to com¬ 
munion. I have made peace. I am very glad.” 

I, too, was very glad. I had thought of him often 
and had asked other priests to bring him back. And 
here he was now, safe in his Father’s house! The 
strayed sheep had come back into the fold. Not for 
a long time had I felt so happy! I remember now, as 
I returned to Anthony Place that day, while walking 
along a secluded part of the way, twirling my cane 



THE RED VINEYARD 


219 


around my fingers as the drum major does at the head 
of a procession. 


Chapter LXXIII 

Back to the Battalion 

The men were never told on coming back from leave 
where they might find their battalion; and when the 
troops were on the move often a soldier was put to very 
great inconvenience trying to reach his unit. I, how¬ 
ever, was in great good luck, for just at the base of 
Mount St. Eloi, while the train stopped, I noticed som^ 
of the soldiers of the Sixteenth standing near by. I 
called one of them and asked the whereabouts of the 
battalion. 

“Just over here in Ecoivres, sir,” he said. I stepped 
out of the train and in twenty minutes was sitting in 
the transport mess talking of my leave. 

I had found my friends in England somewhat down¬ 
hearted, which was but natural considering the great 
losses the British army had sustained during the recent 
German advances. On all sides one heard only gloomy 
forebodings as to future attacks. But back again 
among the gruesome scenes of devastation and ruin, 
I was struck more than ever by the buoyancy and light¬ 
heartedness of the troops. Here were no gloomy fore¬ 
bodings, but on all sides were friendly faces and the 
air was merry with sounds of whistling, singing, bugle 



220 


THE RED VINEYARD 


calls, practicing bands, and good-natured banter. Of 
one thing I felt sure — old “Major Gloom” did not be¬ 
long to the Third Canadian Brigade! 

After I had talked awhile with the quartermaster 
and transport officer, my mail was brought in. It was 
very large, the accumulation of two weeks. It was a 
long while before I had finished reading all the letters. 
The transport officer had gone outside, but the quarter¬ 
master was in the room adjoining the mess, from which 
came now and then little explosions of partly sup¬ 
pressed laughter. And whilst I read my letters I won¬ 
dered what was the cause of the mirth. In a little while 
the quartermaster came out of the room and stopped 
in passing to ask me if I had ever read “Seventeen” 
by Booth Tarkington. Indeed, I had, and I wondered 
no longer why sounds of laughter had drifted out to 
me. 

Among my letters were a few edged in black. One 
of these, heavily crossed by a blue pencil, was regis¬ 
tered, and when I opened it a ten-dollar bill dropped 
to the table. I had been accustomed to receiving many 
letters edged in black, answers to those I had written 
to next of kin at home, telling them of the death of 
dear ones, and how they had been prepared to meet 
God. It was not often, however, that they came regis¬ 
tered. But as I read the letter I forgot altogether that 
a ten-dollar bill had dropped from it and was now ly¬ 
ing on the table. 

The letter was from the wife of Captain Waud, the 
young officer who had fallen at the head of his men — 
he who had knelt so reverently with them to receive 



THE RED VINEYARD 


221 


Holy Communion that day in New Plymouth Cave. It 
was not only a beautiful letter, with a deep note of 
Catholic faith sounding throughout it, but it told me 
something of the young officer that I had not known. 
He had not always been a Catholic. I learned from the 
letter that he had been wounded previously. “You 
know, he did not have to go back to France,” wrote 
Mrs. Waud, “but duty called, so I let him go with as 
brave a heart as I could, and brought my little son 
home. I had prayed so that my husband would be 
spared to me, but indeed God knows best and He is 

t _ 

helping me now. Everything of that last day is com¬ 
forting and very beautiful. And although the heart¬ 
ache and longing will not leave, I feel that I have a 
great deal to be thankful for. I am enclosing a little 
offering for whatever lies near your heart. It is little 
and I wish it were more. I thank you for all you have 
done for my husband, and indeed I will pray for your 
lads. Trusting that you will remember me, and that 
God will give me the grace to do my duty as worthily 
as my husband did his, I am, gratefully yours, Ruth 
Waud.” 

For a long time I sat there thinking of the letter I 
held in my hand, and then of other letters that had 
come to me from time to time. And I thought how 
many women there must be over the world bearing 
great sorrows, but the eyes of the world were not fo¬ 
cused on these! They were on the battalions that had 
marched away to the war while flags fluttered and 
bands played and people cheered. They watched the 
papers for accounts of great deeds of arms. But when- 



222 


THE RED VINEYARD 


ever I read such letters my thoughts would go back to 
the roads over which the soldiers had marched so brave¬ 
ly away, and I would see figures leaning over gates, 
white handkerchiefs held to eyes that had strained 
down the white dusty road over which their soldier 
sons or husbands had marched away. They would go 
back into silent rooms where so many little things 
would remind them of their men. Then, as the days 
would pass, to many would come words to chill the 
heart and make homes desolate: “Killed in Action.” 
Whenever I wrote to these poor mothers or wives, I 
would see a great lonely hill, on which stood a cross 
whereon was nailed a scourged, thorn-crowned Figure 
whose eyes rested with great pity on one who stood be¬ 
low — the Mater Dolorosa. It was on her feast, the 
Feast of the Seven Dolors, that the bishop had decided 
I should go to the war, and perhaps it was she who 
helped me to write the letters of sympathy that brought 
comfort to so many sorrowful hearts. With the ten- 
dollar bill I bought comforts for the men. 


Chapter LXXIV 

No Man’s Land Again 

I was billeted in a little hut with the billeting officer. 
It was a very tiny hut, with two berths in it, one above 
the other. As I was on leave when the battalion came 
to Ecoivres, no provision had been made for me, so I 



THE RED VINEYARD 


223 


was obliged to share the billeting officer’s hnt which he 
so kindly offered. He was a genial companion, but he 
used to sit up very late at night puzzling over a chess¬ 
board. He was playing a game of chess with a part¬ 
ner who was actually residing in England, and every 
night, after great puzzling over the board, he was 
obliged to write the result of his efforts to his partner 
in England. One evening — I suppose it was his part¬ 
ner’s turn to play and it was for this reason that his 
chess-board was idle — he took his Bible from his table 
and said, naively: “Now, Padre, I won’t try to change 
your views, and you won’t try to change mine, but 
just take your Bible, and I will read certain passages 
from mine, and you will read the same passages from 
yours.” 

I could not help smiling, as I reached for my Bible, 
at the thought of the billeting officer not wishing to 
change my views, for these words had just come to 
my mind: “Upon this rock I will build My Church.” 

I can’t recall the texts he picked out and asked me 
to read from my Bible, but I remember that each one 
seemed contrary to the teachings of the Catholic Church 
on the subject treated. As every one familiar with 
the Douai-Rheims version of the Bible knows, there 
are little notes on texts that might be disputed, giving 
the true meaning and also reference to other texts 
which would prove the teaching. Glancing at the foot¬ 
note, I would give the true interpretation and then re¬ 
fer the amateur exegete to the other texts. In a little 
while he closed his Bible. “Why, Padre,” he ex¬ 
claimed, “you know the whole Bible by heart!” 



224 


THE RED VINEYARD 


“Well/’ I said modestly, as I suppressed a desire 
to smile, “I don’t think I know it by heart, but you 
know it is my business to teach the truths that are in 
it,” — but I did not mention the foot-notes! 

The following morning the billeting officer came 
hurriedly into the room. “Padre,” he said, “we are 
leaving here tomorrow night for the trenches. We’re 
taking over the line in front of Monchy.” 

For just a second or two a peculiar numbness 
seemed to spread through every nerve in my body: it 
was nothing new, however, for years before, when a 
boy at the public school, after the teacher had opened 
the drawer in her desk and removed a black, snake¬ 
like piece of leather, and had said quietly: “Bennie 
Murdoch, come up here,” this strange numbness had 
come over me together with a slight contraction of 
the muscles of the throat. 

But it quickly passed, and after I had swallowed 
once or twice to make sure of my throat, I said the 
obvious thing: “ Well, that means another move! ’ ’ 

Going into the trenches was not the only hard piece 
of work I had to do. A very difficult task was before 
me, though I did not know it till I went up to the mess 
for lunch. Three or four letters were lying near my 
plate. One envelope was much larger than the others 
and bore in the upper left-hand corner the words 
“Assembly Chamber, State of New York, Albany” and 
beneath, was the address of Joseph V. McKee, 890 East 
176th St., New York City, the brother of one of my 
“Canadians” who was an American by birth, and had 
lived all his life in the United States. There were many 



THE RED VINEYARD 


225 


such in the Third Brigade — Private McKee was in the 
Fifteenth Battalion. I knew him well and he was one 
of my very best Catholics. 

I opened the letter and began to read it, and as I 
did I felt that I was turning sick. The letter contained 
a request that I please notify Private McKee that his 
mother had departed this life. 

After lunch I left on foot for Anzin, for I had learned 
that the Fifteenth Battalion was quartered there. It 
was a distance of only three miles, yet it was one of 
the hardest journeys I ever made in France. Life 
at the front was very hard for these lads, but it was 
always brightened by the hope of finally seeing the 
dear ones at home. It had not been very long before, 
that Private McKee had spoken to me of his mother. 
One of the loveliest things in this world is the love of 
a good man for his mother. Every step was bringing 
me nearer the lad, and I so dreaded the thought of 
telling him! My head began to pain, and I went back 
in memory to the first time I was called on to break 
sorrowful news. I had been a priest just a little over 
a year when one night the telephone bell rang, and a 
trembling voice told me one of my men had been killed 
by a falling log. There were fifteen men in the small 
railway station where the voice was coming from; 
they were only about two hundred yards from the 
house where lived the widow of the man that was killed, 
and I was six miles away. Yet not one would break 
the terrible news. I was implored to come. 

I shall never forget that night. A full moon was 
throwing its light over all the white land, darkened here 




226 


THE RED VINEYARD 


and there by a clump of green, white-patched trees, 
but the thought of what I had to do had numbed me 
to all sense of beauty. And as I drove along even the 
horse seemed to feel what terrible work had to be done, 
for once he actually stopped in the road and I had 
difficulty in starting him; yet I could see no reason 
for his having stopped. 

As I walked along, dreading all the time what was 
before me, I noticed that the soldiers who were quar¬ 
tered along the road wore the purple patch of the Fifth 
Division. They were artillerymen. Then a sign on 
a door of a shell-torn house told me that an R. C. 
chaplain dwelt within. I inferred that it was Father 
McPherson, the Fifth Divisional Artillery chaplain, 
one of the holiest priests in France; often I had seen 
him kneeling down in a dugout or some poor billet read¬ 
ing his Breviary. 

I knocked on the door and was shown up to Father 
McPherson’s room, and the sight of his pleasant kindly 
face did me good. I told him of the task I had to per¬ 
form. He spoke sympathetically and invited me to 
call in on my return and have tea with him. 

After leaving Father McPherson, the thought of what 
I had to do did not weigh so heavily. Perhaps it was 
that the prayers of the good priest I had just left 
followed me. 

They told me at the Fifteenth Battalion orderly room 
that Private McKee was quarantined, — the “flu” was 
now becoming quite prevalent among the men. I found 
him sitting in a bell tent, one of a group pitched in a 




THE RED VINEYARD 


227 


large garden of a chateau. I called him, and when he 
came we walked up and down a long garden path under 
the trees while I broke as gently as I could the terrible 
news I had for him. 

He took it well — took it bravely and quietly like the 
good soldier he was, with great submission to the holy 
will of God, like the good Catholic his dear mother had 
brought him up to be. I talked with him a little while, 
and when I left I asked Our Lady of the Seven Dolors 
to stay with the lad and to comfort him. 


Chapter LXXV 

No Man’s Land 

The following day we took over the line just before 
Monchy. The quartermaster, transport officer and I 
had a nice little mess at Berneville, near Arras. I was 
billeted with the cure of Berneville and he proved a 
friendly old man. His old sister was housekeeper for 
him. She was very kind, and George received many 
cups of hot coffee. 

It did not happen very often that battalion head¬ 
quarters were in the front line trench; yet it so hap¬ 
pened when we were at Monchy. Indeed, the first 
night, on going up to the trenches, I actually walked 
through No Man’s Land in order to reach headquarters’ 
dugout. It was a part of the line that we had retaken 



228 


THE RED VINEYARD 


from the Germans, and for this reason the opening of 
the shaft leading down to the dugout faced the Ger¬ 
man front instead of our own back area. 

The second night I spent in the line at Monchy I 
was awakened suddenly by a terrific bombardment by 
the Germans. The dugout was shaking from the con¬ 
cussion of the shells bursting on the ground above us. 
I had been sleeping fully dressed and with my trench 
coat on; for although it was July it was very cold 
underground. My bed was a berth of meshed wire 
stretched between rough scantling — nothing else, not 
even a blanket; my pillow was my haversack. When 
I awoke I was trembling violently, I was not sure 
whether through cold or fear. Yet after I stood up and 
walked up and down a little while talking to the offi¬ 
cers, I ceased to tremble. 

The Germans were putting on a box barrage, that is, 
they were bombarding us in such a way that the shells 
were dropping behind us, and to our left and right, so 
that we could not retreat and no troops could come 
to our aid. The only way open to approach us was 
from the German trenches opposite, by way of No 
Man’s Land. This was the way the Germans would 
be coming presently, either to order us up or to throw 
bombs or tubes of amenol down to blow us into minut¬ 
est fragments. We talked quietly as we waited there 
at bay; but we were all a little nervous. I shall never 
forget those minutes we spent there, caught like rats 
in a trap. 

We waited and waited; the very atmosphere of the 



THE RED VINEYARD 


229 


dugout seemed heavy and sickening. Then suddenly 
the bombarding ceased. Surely, Fritz had not changed 
his mind; yet it was always under cover of his own 
artillery fire that he made his advances or raids. We 
became a little cheerful. Finally, after half an hour 
of quiet we concluded that for some unknown reason 
Fritz had decided not to come. Then, our hearts filled 
with relief, we sat about the candle-lit dugout chatting 
like happy boys on their way home for vacation. 

The following morning, with God’s beautiful sun¬ 
light over all the land, I stepped out into No Man’s 
Land with Colonel Peck and we took a little walk. 
Beautiful red flowers resembling in size and shape the 
sweet pea, only they were short-stemmed and in clus¬ 
ters, grew near an old pile of stones. It was the first 
time I had ever seen flowers growing in “No Man’s 
Land,” and I began to pick a few. The colonel, how¬ 
ever, told me to hurry. Indeed, it was no place to 
loiter, for although No Man’s Land was very wide here, 
one could see the parapets of the German trenches. 


Chapter LXXVI 

Cambligneul 

Here we came for a week’s rest after our turn in 
the line. We little knew then what strenuous days 
were before us, nor what terrible toll was to be taken 



230 


THE RED VINEYARD 


of our ranks before we would rest again. It was a 
very pretty countryside, though not so open as the 
area we had occupied in June. 

It was now the end of July, and although my troops 
were scattered over very wide areas I managed to do 
good work with the Thirteenth and Fourteenth. In¬ 
deed, one evening I found one hundred and twenty-five 
lads of the Fourteenth waiting for me in a quaint little 
church at a place called Chelers, or Villers-Chatel. This 
was indeed extraordinary for an evening during the 
week, when there was no hint of our soon leaving for 
the front line. The Fifteenth and Sixteenth had not 
been having a very good chance of late to go to con¬ 
fession. Whenever the four battalions were separated, 
I always gave the Thirteenth and Fourteenth the pre¬ 
ference for Masses, as there were more Catholics in 
either one of these than in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth 
together. These two latter battalions were often 
obliged to attend the village Mass said by the cure of 
the parish in which they happened to be. 

August came, and the rich promise that was over 
all the land in June was now being fulfilled: great 
brown stacks of hay, like dark hillocks, stood over all 
the green land, and here and there were large golden 
patches of rye, weighed and bent low with the full ker¬ 
nels, so that now they were not much higher than my 
waist. In fields and gardens were low bivouacs, about 
three feet in height, where soldiers slept at night. 

Cambligneul was a very small village and had no 
resident priest but was served from Camblain L’Abbey, 
which was only about a mile and a half distant. I 



THE RED VINEYARD 


231 


was billeted in a farm-house not far from the church. 
The old lady of the house resembled very much the 
wife of the captain in the ‘ ‘Katzenjammer Kids. ” 

One rainy afternoon the old lady made bread, and 
as I had never seen bread made in France, I was very 
interested in the process. It was a different one than 
that employed in country houses at home. The old 
lady mixed the dough in a large trough-like affair that 
resembled a half-barrel that had been cut horizontally 
on a wood-horse. Into this was poured a great quan¬ 
tity of flour and water which the capable arms of 
“mamma Katzenjammer ” worked quickly into dough. 
When it was kneaded sufficiently, an iron door was 
opened in a large brick oven, and from it a few em¬ 
bers were quickly drawn. This part of the process 
surprised me very much as I did not know that a wood 
fire had actually been made in the oven. Then the old 
lady took a long-handled flat wooden shovel that stood 
near the kneaded dough, which had not been set to 
rise, but had been placed on paper in flat wicker bas¬ 
kets. She picked up each basket and upset the dough 
on the shovel; each basket contained just enough dough 
to cover the shovel and still be about two inches in 
thickness. The shovel was pushed far into the oven 
and then with a quick jerk by the experienced hands 
of old Madame, was drawn out empty. When all the 
dough in the baskets had been put in the oven the 
door was closed and, if I remember rightly, it was two 
hours before the oven was opened again. It was George 
who came to tell me that Madame was going to open 
the oven. I went out just in time to see the old lady 




232 


THE RED VINEYARD 


pull to the front of the oven, by means of a long-hand¬ 
led hook, the great flat loaves of dark-brown bread: 
there were fifteen loaves in all, about one foot and a 
half in diameter and two inches deep. It was very 
good bread, as I discovered when I tasted some the 
following day. 

Before the following Sunday orders came to march. 
First we went to Berneville, and on Saturday, after I 
had arranged for church service for Sunday, we were 
moved to Lattre-St.Quentin. The other battalions 
were quartered in the same area. It was late Saturday 
night when I finished organizing for Sunday; but the 
services were not to be. More marching orders came. 
We were to leave in the morning at five o’clock for 
Avesnes-le-Compte, where we were to entrain, desti¬ 
nation not given. The hour had struck; big things 
were before us. 


Chapter LXXYII 

A New Front 

It was half-past three Sunday morning when I awoke. 
I dressed quickly, went down to the little church and 
said Mass. When I left the church the road was filled 
with soldiers moving in different directions, carrying 
mess tins of steaming porridge, across the top of which 
was placed some bread and butter with a strip of fried 
bacon; in the other hand was the cover of the mess tin 



THE RED VINEYARD 


233 


filled with hot tea. They were all joking and in ex¬ 
cellent spirits; yet before the following Sunday — 

We entrained between eight and nine o’clock and 
all day long there was great speculation as to our des¬ 
tination. Some thought that the division was return¬ 
ing to the Ypres salient; others guessed that we were 
on our way up to the North Sea coast. Later in the 
day it was rumored that we were going to Etaples, 
where there was to be more drilling. For awhile it 
seemed that we were returning to the area about 
Etaples. But towards evening we knew the truth; we 
were coming into the area on the Somme. 

It was late in the evening when we detrained, and 
to this day I do not know the name of the place. We 
took supper and then began to march. We crossed the 
Somme River and then in the darkness went through 
what seemed to be a very pretty country, one more 

4 

wooded than I had yet seen in France. And as we 
went on and on under ancient wide-spreading trees, I 
began to wish it had been daylight, for surely it must 
have been some famous forest of France. 

There had either been some confusion of orders or 
else our guides did not know the way, for we spent 
the whole night marching over dark roads, through 
quiet villages and dense forests. One little scene stands 
out in my memory quite vividly. We had been march¬ 
ing for a long time when the order came ringing 
through the darkness: “Fall out!” The men fell out 
and immediately began to sit around on the damp 
earth; a fine mist of rain had been falling for sometime. 
Permission was given to smoke, and presently hundreds 



234 


THE RED VINEYARD 


of tiny red circles glowed in the darkness of the forest. 

“Where are we now?” some one asked. Of course 
he was bombarded with replies, but none of them 
proved correct; indeed, many went very wide of the 
mark as they meant to do, for they were names of 
Canadian towns or countries. 

* 

Presently I noticed the white circle of light from a 
flash-lamp move over a field map spread out on the 
ground, and in the relative silence that had now en¬ 
sued I listened intently, as the low murmur of the 
voices of the officers regarding the map came to my 
ears. They mentioned the name of some place but 
I did not catch it; then one officer spoke louder, so 
that I heard quite distinctly: “It's Picardy we are 
now in, Picardy.” 

He stopped speaking, and from the opposite side of 
the glade came the sound of a murmured conversation. 
It ceased, and in the silence a wonderful clear voice be¬ 
gan to sing softly, yet not so low but that all could 
hear, the song “Roses are Blooming in Picardy.” I 
had never heard the song before. It seemed fitting 
for that young soldier to be singing there in the damp 
forest while his companions listened and joined in the 
chorus. I suppose for many of those brave young lads 
who sang the words had a special significance. 

We kept marching slowly, and resting; five o’clock 
showed on our wrist watches. Then we came to our 
halting-place. 

It was a strange little village to which we came. 
Perhaps I should not say that it was “strange,” for 
it was built like all other farming villages of France, 




THE RED VINEYARD 


235 


but the people were strange: they had never seen 
Canadian soldiers before, and only rarely since the be¬ 
ginning of the war had they seen the soldiers of their 
own country. All the people turned out to see us 
as if a circus had come to town. The soldiers were 
treated with very much more consideration than they 
had been accustomed to, and the prices in the village 
stores were extremely low. 

I slept a few hours and then took my bicycle and 
went out to try to find the Fifteenth Battalion. I 
could get no information from the orderly room. 
Everything was being done with the utmost secrecy; 
we might move at any time. But George, ever-faithful 
George, told me he had seen the Fifteenth transport 
officer going to a little village said to be only three 
miles distant. I started, but found progress very diffi¬ 
cult once I had left the village. The gentle mist of 
rain that had been falling through the night had in¬ 
creased towards morning and caused the wet, oily clay 
to adhere to the tires of my bicycle; sometimes the 
wheels skidded, and sometimes I was obliged to dis¬ 
mount and remove the clay that clung so tenaciously 
to the fork above the front wheel. Once I saw a num¬ 
ber of the Thirteenth going towards a village on my 
right. After I had passed them I became worried. I 
was not sure of finding the Fifteenth but I felt that 
I could reach the billets of the Thirteenth by follow¬ 
ing the lads I had just seen. I continued a little far¬ 
ther on my way, still thinking of the Thirteenth. I 
dismounted, turned, and began to ride in the direction 
the Thirteenth soldiers had gone. I had not gone far, 




236 


THE RED VINEYARD 


however, when I began to think that after all the Fif¬ 
teenth had much greater need of my services than the 
Thirteenth; for all I knew then, we might be in the 
line that very night. I stopped again in the road and 
stood by my bicycle. Never in my life had I felt such 
indecision, but it was serious work I had to do — per¬ 
haps by tomorrow many of the lads would be killed. 
And here was I standing in the road almost in a 
panic — doing nothing ! 

I now began to pray to the Little Flower. I had 
never prayed to her before; the Blessed Virgin had 
always looked after all my wants. I remounted and 
presently I was going down a long hill very swiftly, 
finding great difficulty in managing my wheel. Just 
when I was half-way down I met a runner of the Six¬ 
teenth. He had passed me before I could stop, so I 
turned my head a little to call to him. The next thing 
I knew I had shot completely over my machine and 
was on my hands and knees on the road, a severe pain 
in one of my knees. The runner turned quickly, a 
look of concern in his eyes; but I had twisted my face 
into a smile and his face brightened. 

He pointed out a clump of trees on the opposite hill 
and told me I would find the Fifteenth there. I did, 
and gave some of them Communion. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


237 


Chapter LXXYIII 

Boves 

I returned to the Sixteenth and succeeded in giving 
Holy Communion to a few soldiers, among whom was 
the solicitor whom I had baptized at Monchy Breton. 
But I was by no means pleased with my day’s work, 
for I had not gotten all the Catholics in each battalion. 

At six o’clock we left this area, and towards morn¬ 
ing, after marching continuously, were met by a long 
line of busses that brought us through the city of 
Amiens to within three or four miles of Boves. We 
marched for nearly two hours and about ten o’clock 
came into the city of Boves, from which all the inhabi¬ 
tants had gone. 

I was very tired and hungry, but I had not broken 
my fast, for I wished to say Mass, if I could find time, 
in order that I might offer it for the success of my 
work among the soldiers. 

I easily found the church of Boves, and just as I 
entered, met a chaplain of the French army coming 
out. I saluted and told him who I was. He was a 
friendly priest and had one of the kindest faces I have 
ever seen. We talked for a little while, then, as there 
was no parish priest at Boves, he came back to the 
sacristy to show me where to find things. Then he 
served my Mass. 

I had lunch in the mess of the French chaplain, after 
which I went out into the highways and byways seek¬ 
ing my men. I had excellent news. The whole Third 




238 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Brigade was billeted in the city. This was the first 
time since March 28th that I could remember having 
all my units together. Not content with announcing 
confessions at the orderly rooms of the different bat¬ 
talions, fearing there might be some miscarriage of 
orders and that some of the men might not be notified, 
I went all over the city visiting them. It had not 
been very long since the majority had gone to confes¬ 
sion, yet I wished to give every one an opportunity. 
I had learned at brigade headquarters that the battal¬ 
ions would not go into the trenches till ten o’clock 
that night. 

At five o’clock, when I entered the church of Boves, 
I was somewhat nervous. At Mass that morning I had 
forgotten to look in the ciborium to see how many con¬ 
secrated Hosts there were. I went straight to the 
altar, opened the tabernacle door, took out the cibo¬ 
rium and opened it. As I feared, there would not be 
enough Particles for one-tenth the number I expected! 
I closed the door softly, saying a little prayer as I 
did so, and walked back to the confessional in the 
rear of the church, for the men were beginning to 
arrive. 

I had not reached the confessional when I noticed 
the French chaplain coming into the church. I went 
to him quietly and made known to him what I had 
learned from mv visit to the tabernacle. He was svm- 

v */ 

pathetic and immediately began to think what we 
could do. First, he thought of saying Mass, although 
it was then five o’clock in the afternoon and he had 
broken his fast; it seemed, however, to each of us that 




THE RED VINEYARD 


239 


he would be quite justified in so doing. Then suddenly 
he remembered a convent chapel, about seven kilo¬ 
meters distant, where he felt sure there would be a 
ciborium with a sufficient number of consecrated Hosts. 
He said he would go on horseback. Seldom have I 
felt more grateful than I did to him that night. 

I began to hear confessions and the lads came in 
great numbers. Soon the light became dim in the 
great church and lads who had come first began to be 
a little restless: they wondered why I did not give 
them Holy Communion. 

It was now becoming so dark that I could just dis¬ 
tinguish the crowds of kneeling soldiers. I was hear¬ 
ing confessions very quickly. Once a fellow knocked 
on the confessional door and told me he hoped I would 
soon give communion, as he had some things to do 
before going into the line. He had now been waiting 
a long time, he said. I asked him if he could wait a 
few minutes longer, as time was so precious and such 
crowds of men were coming that I did not wish to 

leave my confessional for a minute. I was praying be- 

» 

tween the drawing of slides for the appearance of the 
French chaplain. No soldier had yet left the church, 
yet I feared they might. Then away up in the sanct¬ 
uary I noticed a little flame flash out in the darkness 
and then move quickly to one side of the tabernacle, 
where it touched the responsive wick of a candle and 
another gleam of light shot up, then, on the other side 
of the tabernacle, the other candle flashed. As I heard 
the slow moving of many feet towards the altar-rail, 
I thanked God. 




240 


THE RED VINEYARD 


For a long while the priest, after placing two lighted 
candles on the sanctuary railing, moved up and down 
between them dispensing the Bread of the Strong to 
those Canadian soldiers. When all who were ready had 
received, he put the ciborium in the tabernacle and 
knelt to pray till I had prepared more lads for him. 

I did not move from my confessional till after ten 
o’clock, and it was after this hour before I left, for 
still men came. They were now coming fully equipped 
for battle, hoping to catch up with their companions, 
who must have already left. 

When the last man had been shriven, the chaplain 
came down to have a little talk with me. I was almost 
overcome as I thanked him for what he had done, for 
I was now beginning to be very tired. 

“Well,” he said, with a beaming face, “are you 
happy? Are you happy?” 

“Happy?” I repeated. “Indeed, I am, for wonder¬ 
ful things have been done tonight for God!” 

As I walked down to my billet that night I was 
swaying, as I went, from sheer exhaustion; I tried to 
recall when it was that I had a night’s sleep. It seemed 
months, yet it was but a few days. My billet was up¬ 
stairs in a house that had not been struck by enemy fire. 

George met me at the door and told me to go to my 
room, that he would bring my dinner. I stumbled up¬ 
stairs, for I was weak with hunger and fatigue. I 
sat in a chair and was almost falling asleep when 
George came in with a large granite plate filled with 
roast beef, mashed potatoes and green peas. He had 
kept it hot for me. I picked up the knife and fork and 



THE RED VINEYARD 


241 


they seemed heavy. George began to arrange my bed. 
New strength came as I ate the excellent food — we 
were always well fed before a battle; in fact, the men 
could always foretell a battle by the quantities of 
strawberry jam they received two or three days pre¬ 
ceding action. I had not finished the meat and vege¬ 
tables when the cook himself came up with some straw¬ 
berry jam, little cakes and a huge granite mug of hot 
cocoa. When I had finished the cocoa, I can just re¬ 
member George saying: “Hadn’t you better take off 
your boots, sir?” And the next thing I knew it was 
broad daylight, and as I looked at my wrist watch the 
hands pointed to half-past ten a. m. I had slept about 
ten and one-half hours. 

I had learned the preceding night that the battle 
would not begin till very early in the morning of Au¬ 
gust 8th. It had taken, I supposed, the whole night 
for the troops to assemble. Very likely they would 
sleep or rest today. There was no need for me to go 
up till evening. 

I looked about the room. The dinner dishes had been 
removed and so had my boots, but with the exception 
of boots and leggings I was completely dressed. It 
did not take me very long to put on my boots and shave, 
yet it was twelve o’clock when I came out of the church 
of Boves after I had said Mass. 

That evening, August 7th, I went up to Gentelles 
Wood. 




242 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter LXXIX 

The Battle of Amiens 

It was a wonderful sight that met the eye as George 
and I left Boves that evening and turned our steps 
towards the battle-ground. The artillery had as¬ 
sembled, and on all sides were great guns in cuttings 
of embankments or hidden in woods, or camouflaged 
in the open. At times the roads were blocked with 
the heavy lines of traffic, but as we drew nearer the 
line the movement was not so great; yet coming through 
fields and woods were the huge, clanking tanks. There 
must have been at least one hundred of them careen¬ 
ing along up hill and down dale. Nothing seemed to be 
able to stop their unwieldly bulk. I learned after¬ 
wards that great bombing planes had swooped low 
over Fritz’s trenches, making a great noise so as to 
deaden the sounds of the assembling tanks. 

I did not sleep at all that night. Indeed, very few 
slept, for during the night the troops were taking their 
place for the assault and it was not till 2 :10 a. m. that 
the assembly was complete. 

At 4:10 a. m., August 8th, a terrific crash of heavy 
and light guns broke the silence of the dawn on a 
twenty-mile front. I had never before been in a great 
battle and was not prepared for action on such a stu¬ 
pendous scale. The earth seemed to be rocking. The 
full-leaved tree-tops of Gentelles Wood behind us 
twisted and broke, as shells from our back areas 
shrieked their way towards Fritz’s line. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


243 


I stood for awhile waiting for Fritz’s “come back,” 
but the Germans had been so completely surprised by 
the unexpected bombardment that their artillery gave 
but a very faint-hearted reply. On seeing this we felt 
that victory was assured. I did not have long to watch 
the tide of battle, for presently a long line of stretcher- 
bearers, their burdens raised shoulder high, told me 
my work was to begin. 

All day long I walked up and down among the 
wounded, hearing confessions, giving Holy Communion, 
anointing those mortally wounded, and taking mes¬ 
sages for dear ones at home. Among the dying were 
many Germans, and a number of these were Catholics. 
I knew only one sentence in German: * ‘ Sind sie Katho- 
lisch?” “Are you a Catholic?” but it was sufficient, 
for I understood when the reply was “Yes,” or “No.” 
When a German would say he was a Catholic, I would 
put on my stole, open my little ciborium, hold up the 
Sacred Host, and then I would look at him. Always 
his two hands would fold, and I would wait kneeling 
by his side till he had finished his act of contrition; 
then I would give him Holy Communion. It was a 
beautiful sight to see the tears of gratitude come into 
the eyes of those dying Germans after they had re¬ 
ceived their Lord; and after I had anointed them, in¬ 
variably they reached out and gripped my hand before 
passing out. Many lads were ushered up to the gates 
of heaven that day. 

The following morning George and I went up to 
Caix. My own brigade was now out of the fight for a 
while, but I was following with the Second Field Am- 



244 


THE RED VINEYARD 


bulance. For a long time we waited on the side of 
the road, as the place we intended to hold for an ad¬ 
vanced dressing station had not yet been taken. About 
1:10 p. m. I stood on a hill and watched the men of the 
First Brigade come up into action. An Irish chaplain 
whom I had once met at St. MichaeFs Club was riding 
behind them. He told me that he had just given them 
a general absolution. 

All that afternoon, and late into the evening, I 
worked with the Second Field Ambulance. A great 
number of wounded passed through. Once some enemy 
airplanes swooped low and dropped bombs amongst 
us, but they failed to kill any one. We were now in 
open warfare, and for the first time I saw the cavalry 
in action. They came cantering across an open field, 
their spears, held at their sides, pointing heavenwards, 
ribbons fluttered from the long handles, and the bur¬ 
nished points flashed in the sunlight. 

That evening I was relieved by Father Locharay and 
I found a small dugout where I got a few hours of 
sleep. 


Chapter LXXX 

At the Wayside 

Early in the morning George and I left to find the 
Sixteenth which had passed through in the evening. 
We anticipated some trouble, for to find one’s battalion 
after an attack is not the easiest thing in the world. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


245 


However, we saw the Sixteenth Battalion water-cart 
in the great procession that filled the road before ns, 
so, keeping onr eyes on it, we slipped in behind a 
transport wagon and followed along on the right side 
of the road. We went slowly, and at times halted for 
five and sometimes ten minutes. Now and again some 
of the horses in the procession, as we passed dead 
horses on the side of the road, would begin side-step¬ 
ping in their fear, and this would interfere somewhat 
with the progress of the line. 

We had been walking with many halts for over an 
hour, and I remember how surprised I was that our 
soldiers had advanced so far. All the marks of the 
advance were along the way: broken war-wagons of 
every description, dead Germans and dead Canadians, 
deep shell holes, shattered buildings, and always in 
the air mingled with the dust that rose from the busy 
road were the odors of gas and sulphur. 

We had been walking on the right of the procession, 
and to this day I cannot say why I decided to change 
my place. For no reason that I can remember I 
stepped in front of a team of mules hitched to a gen¬ 
eral service wagon and crossed to the left of the 
road. Then I noticed two soldiers approaching carry¬ 
ing a wounded comrade on a stretcher. I am certain 
that if I had not crossed to the left of the road I 
would not have noticed them. 

Just as the lads came alongside me they halted and 
I heard one say: “He ain’t dead yet.” Then gently 
they lowered their burden to the road in order to 
take a short rest. 



246 


THE BED VINEYARD 


I stepped over to the wounded lad and a glance 
told me that he had not much longer to live. I knelt 
quickly on one knee and pulled out the little round 
identification disc attached to the string around his 
neck. I looked at it and saw the letters “R. C.” 

I remember throwing off my shrapnel helmet (‘‘tin 
lid,” the lads called it) and it rattled on the hard 
road, though the noise was deadened by the rumble 
of the passing traffic. Then I spoke to the lad, telling 
him I was a Catholic priest. Finding him conscious, 
I told him to make a good act of contrition for all the 
sins of his past life and that I would give him absolu¬ 
tion. Then, as the great procession went lumbering 
by I pronounced the words of absolution, and anointed 
him there on the roadside. In a little while he passed 
away peacefully. 

I copied from the little leather disc his name, num¬ 
ber and battalion: Private W. J. Daze, No. 788567, 
Third Canadian Infantry Battalion. A few days later 
I got his mother’s address from the Third Battalion 
orderly room and wrote her, telling how grace had 
come to the lad. 


Chapter LXXXI 

In An Apple Orchard 

We remained on the Amiens front nearly three 
weeks, and we were lucky enough not to have much 



THE RED VINEYARD 


247 


rain, for we were in trenches where there were no 
dugouts. 

The transport mess was in an apple orchard, one of 
the great old orchards of Picardy where in days be¬ 
fore the war, happy peasants picked the apples to 
make the golden cider. 

There were many troops quartered in this orchard, 
as the trees offered shade and screened us fairly well 
from the ever baleful eye of enemy airplanes. Yet al¬ 
most every evening we were bombed. We would hear 
the signal of his approach long before the whir of his 
motor became audible. We would be sitting in groups, 
sometimes around little fires of wood or charcoal, talk¬ 
ing in low voices, when suddenly there would come 
three shrill blows of a whistle, the kind used by ref¬ 
erees of football matches. Instantly water would be 
poured on fires, or a few shovelfuls of earth would be 
thrown over the bright embers, and then a hurrying 
and scurrying to trenches; the sounds of laughter and 
pleasant talk would die away with the hissing of the 
expiring fires. Then profound silence, save for the 
champing of horses tethered at one end of the orchard 
under the trees. Presently from far up in the sky, 
coming nearer and nearer, would sound that peculiar 
err-rum, err-rum, err-rum, which left no uncertainty in 
our minds as to whose airplanes were approaching. 

Sometimes they would go far beyond us and we 
would hear the terrific crash and explosion as their 
bombs dropped in our back areas; sometimes they 
would drop near our own lines and we would lie there 
waiting. 




248 


THE RED VINEYARD 


From a certain point in the orchard we had a very 
good view of many of our observation balloons, far 
in our rear. I remember one day, while a group of 
us were sitting talking, suddenly hearing from high 
in the air near one of our balloons the quick rat-tat-tat 
of machine-gun fire. Immediately all eyes were raised 
in time to see a German airplane swoop down from a 
bank of clouds perilously near our observation balloon. 
The enemy was firing from his machine-gun, for every 
three or four seconds we could see the flash of phos¬ 
phorous as the tracer bullet sped through the sky. If 
one of those touched the great silk bag of gas — it did, 
and almost simultaneously there was a burst of dark- 
red flame, fringed with black, waving out from the 
balloon. There was a cry of consternation from many 
voices in the orchard as two figures were seen to jump 
from the aerial car of the balloon. We held our 
breath. Then with a spring, one after the other, the 
white parachutes opened, and we breathed a sigh of 
great relief as they came gracefully to the earth. 

Our observation balloons must have been doing ex¬ 
cellent work, for after this Fritz was very busy bring¬ 
ing them down. One afternoon the same airplane ac¬ 
tually brought down, one after the other, five balloons. 
Then, as it started on its return flight, it seemed to be 
flying very low. Immediately every machine-gun in 
the area began firing on him. There must have been 
thousands of bullets soaring towards the speeding 
'plane; but it is very difficult to judge, from the 
ground, distances in the air. 

Suddenly the machine stopped in its course and 



THE RED VINEYARD 


249 


came spiralling slowly downwards. A great cheer 
burst from hundreds of throats and simultaneously 
the machine-guns ceased to fire. There was complete 
silence in the camp as we watched the falling airplane. 
But we had reckoned without our host; for suddenly 
it ceased to fall, then like a lark shot gracefully up, 
up, till it reached a safe distance. Then with admirable 
audacity it looped the loop, and finally winged its way 
towards home. 

What did we do, gentle reader? For a few seconds, 
overcome with amazement, we stood there gazing sky¬ 
wards, then from all over the area there were sounds 
of clapping hands as we good-humoredly applauded 
“Old Fritz.” 


Chapter LXXXII 

A Strange Interruption 

Every morning I said Mass in the part of the trench 
where I slept, which was covered overhead with a 
piece of camouflaged burlap, spread across pieces of 
scantling. The trench was so low that I was obliged 
to dig a hole in the ground, so that I could stand up¬ 
right at my little portable altar. One morning while 
I was saying Mass, a little fox-terrier, belonging to 
George and the transport cook, began walking on the 
burlap above my head. As the burlap was taut, the 
small paws made a kind of drumming sound above me. 



250 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Both George and the cook, although they were non- 
Catholics, wished to show every respect to the chap¬ 
lain; knowing I was saying Mass, they began to call 
off the dog. The little fellow, however, was stubborn 
and wished to remain on the burlap. I think that the 
cook and George then got sticks and tried to poke him 
off, for I could hear him dancing up and down as the 
points of the sticks tapped the burlap roof. It was a 
long time before he was captured, and it was at the 
cost of so much extra noise that I think it would have 
been better had they left him to follow his own in¬ 
clinations— but the lads’ intentions were good. 

New drafts now began coming to the battalions to 
reinforce the ranks, broken in the Battle of Amiens. 
One afternoon the adjutant told me that a draft of 
seventy men had come and that they were going into 
the front line that night. The senior chaplain of the 
division, Canon Scott, an Anglican clergyman, was go¬ 
ing to address them first, after which, he said, if I 
wished I might say a few words to them. 

I went to the orderly room, where I learned that 
thirteen out of the seventy soldiers were Catholics. I 
waited a long time that evening for the Canon to 
finish. When, at last, he had ceased speaking and had 
invited those who wished to attend the communion serv¬ 
ice to step over to the side of the lines, I spoke to 
the men. My talk did not take very long. I first 
asked the Catholics to fall out. Immediately, from 
different sections in the ranks, thirteen men stepped 
out before me. I told them that as they were going 
into the front line and did not know what might be 



THE RED VINEYARD 


251 


before them, perhaps they would wish to go to Holy 
Communion. I told all who wished to do so, to follow 
me down into the trench where I would hear their con¬ 
fessions and give them Holy Communion. I turned 
and proceeded towards the trench. Thirteen men fol¬ 
lowed me. 

That night, after I had wrapped myself in the blan¬ 
kets of my bed-roll, a lieutenant, a middle-aged man who 
was sharing part of the trench with me, came down to 
retire for the evening. As he lay smoking a last pipe 
before drawing the curtains of sleep, I was surprised 
to hear him give utterance to this monologue: “Self¬ 
esteem! Self-esteem! Too much self-esteem. That’s 
what’s the matter!” 

I wondered to whom he referred, and after waiting 
a few seconds to see if he had any more to say, I 
asked him if he were speaking to me. “No, no, Padre.” 
he exclaimed. “I’m thinking of those fellows this 
evening. Did you see them when Canon Scott invited 
them out to the communion? Only about half a dozen 
went, out of all the crowd. Self-esteem, self-esteem — 
that’s it! ” 

“Well,” I replied, “I didn’t notice. I asked my men 
— I had only thirteen in the draft — if they wished to 
go to the sacraments of their church, and immediately 
the thirteen followed me down to the trench.” 

He looked at me keenly and there was not the slight¬ 
est rancor in his voice as he spoke again: “That’s it, 
Padre! That’s it! Of course your men would go! 
That’s to be expected.” A kind of musing note came 
into his voice, as he continued: “What is the secret? 



252 


THE RED VINEYARD 


What is the secret? They don’t fear you. Indeed, 
they love you.” 

I told him as clearly as I could the secret, and as he 
continued smoking quietly, I felt how truly he had 
spoken of our Catholic lads. How they loved the 
priest,.how on battle-field or muddy trench their eyes 
lighted with love as the priest drew near. No wonder 
thirteen men followed me down to the trench: they 
knew what I could do for them. They knew in a few 
minutes they would be friends with Christ; that He 
would visit them, abide in their souls. They were so 
absorbed in the sublimity of what was to take place 
that no thought of what others might say flashed across 
their minds. There was no human respect there. 


Chapter LXXXIII 

Boves Again 

The first Sunday on the Amiens front we had no 
church parade. But the second Sunday we managed 
to have one for the lads out of the trenches. We had 
Mass on a wooded hill that had been heavily shelled 
during the week by the Germans, though they left us 
quiet on Sunday. 

There was a huge crippled tank on the hill, and 
workmen were busy repairing it. I found a rough 
table placed against the tank, and on the table a por¬ 
table altar already set up for Mass; grouped about 



THE RED VINEYARD 


253 


this were some men from other brigades and a few 
of my own men, with a draft that had come for the 
Thirteenth. Father MacDonnell had just finished Mass. 
He and Father Fallon heard confessions, and the work¬ 
men repaired the tank, while I offered up the Holy 
Sacrifice for the men. 

The following Friday evening, after a long, weary 
march, we came back into Boves. It was a different 
looking city from the one we had entered almost three 
weeks before. On the outskirts, high on a hill, dozens 
of great marquee tents rose in the darkening twilight, 
and from a large flag-staff waved, on a white back¬ 
ground, the red-cross: it was one of our Canadian clear¬ 
ing stations that had moved up. We came around a 
turn in the road and there, standing in a group, were 
the nurses, orderlies, and many patients from the tents 
on the hill. They cheered and cheered as the lads 
marched by and the nurses fluttered their white hand¬ 
kerchiefs, while the band played a merry march. Down 
the street of the city the merry pipers piped our way, 
while house after house opened its doors wide and the 
good French people who had returned, whole families 
of them, came out and cheered us as we passed up the 
street. I had a fine billet in the class-room of a school 
just next door to the church; yet it seemed somewhat 
stuffy and closed in after having lived for almost three 
weeks in an apple orchard. 

The following morning, after I came in from Mass, 
I noticed the cook standing on the outer sill of the 
window, looking closely at the grape-vines which grew 
up the sides of the building; many bunches of white 




254 


THE RED VINEYARD 


grapes grew among the thick green leaves. A few 
minutes later, as I sat down to breakfast, George 
walked in with a great cluster, almost as large as a 
pineapple, on a dish and placed them near my plate. 

All day long I was hoping to have the opportunity 
of having my men to confession before leaving Boves, 
for it was being rumored about the city that we were 
on our way back to the Arras front where we were to 
take part in other big battles. I could not learn from 
headquarters at what time we were to leave, but I 
surmised it would be early Sunday morning. I was 
praying the Blessed Virgin to let me have the men, but 
at seven o’clock p. m. it seemed certain that we were 
to move early in the morning. 

At eight o’clock the quartermaster came to me, say¬ 
ing: “The move’s off, Padre. We don’t leave here till 
tomorrow evening.” 

I called George, and soon he and I were out organiz¬ 
ing a church parade of all the troops in the city. I 
called at the C. C. S. on the hill, thinking there might 
be a chaplain there who could help me with confes¬ 
sions. I learned that there was a Catholic chaplain 
attached to the unit, but that at present he was ab¬ 
sent on leave. 

I heard confessions for about an hour before Mass, 
but as the time for Mass drew near it became evident 
that I would not be able to hear one-quarter of the 
great throng of khaki-clad lads that filled the church; 
all the pews were filled and many were standing. When 
the hour for Mass had come, even the large sanctuary 



THE RED VINEYARD 


255 


was filled with soldiers, some of them wearing the blue 
uniform of France. 

I was just about to leave the confessional to say 
Mass when I heard some one knocking on the door. 
I looked up quickly: there stood Father MacDonnell 
in his Scotch uniform. I was so overjoyed that I step¬ 
ped out quickly and cried: “The Blessed Virgin sent 
you here!” 

He looked at me with his shrewd, kind eyes, and 
there was not the shadow of a smile in them as he 
said: “Never mind, now, who sent me here. What can 
I do for you?” 

I asked him which he preferred, to say Mass or to 
hear confessions. He said he had already said Mass 
and had taken his breakfast. So I asked him if he 
would kindly hear confessions. 

I walked up the aisle towards the altar, past row 
and row of those great-hearted Catholic lads, and as 
I went I thanked the Blessed Virgin for what she had 
done. But it was a little too early: she had not yet 
finished answering my prayers, for just as I entered 
the sanctuary I noticed one of the French soldiers sit¬ 
ting on a bench reading his Breviary. I touched him 
on the shoulder and asked him if he were a priest. 

He was. 

Then I asked him if he would hear the French con¬ 
fessions, for more than half the men of the Fourteenth 
Battalion were French. He closed his Breviary, after 
he had marked the place with a colored ribbon. Then 
he bowed and said he would. 





256 THE RED VINEYARD 


About two years after the Armistice had been signed 
I was travelling in New Brunswick when a young man 
came down the car to shake hands with me. He had 
been one of the officers of the Fourteenth Battalion as¬ 
sisting at Mass in the church at Boves that Sunday. 
After we had talked a little while, he remarked: 
‘ 4 Father, I have often thought of that Sunday at 
Boves. It seemed to me a beautiful thing to see offi¬ 
cers of high rank going over and kneeling down at 
the feet of one clad in the uniform of a French private 
of the ranks to have their sins absolved.” 

Just before Mass I announced that during the cele¬ 
bration of the Holy Sacrifice Father MacDonnell would 
hear confessions in English while the French Father 
would hear the French confessions, and that after 
Mass, if there were still some who had not gone to 
confession, the two priests would continue to hear and 
I would help them. I added that confessions would 
be heard and communion given again that afternoon. 

I said my Mass slowly and preached about twenty 
minutes. During my sermon I saw something that 
gratified me very much. Among the officers of one of 
the battalions was one whom I had never seen at the 
sacraments. I had approached him some time before, 
and had met the greatest rebuff I had ever received 
from a Catholic: he told me quite gruffly that he had 
no time for that kind of thing. His words had actually 
struck me dumb for a few seconds, so that I walked 
away from him without saying anything further. But 
as I preached that Sunday at Boves, looking out over 
that sea of reverent faces, I saw the officer stand up 


» 




THE RED VINEYARD 


257 


and walk reverently to the confessional, and when I 
gave Holy Communion I saw him at the rails. 

As I write these words there stands on the little 
table before me a tiny plaster statue of the Immaculate 
Conception. Since I began writing this story it has 
been always present on the table. It was given to me 
by a soldier of the Fourteenth Battalion just after the 
Battle of Amiens. Cut into the base of the statue is 
the one word “Boves,” and the dents made by the let¬ 
ters are filled with the red clay of France. I will 
keep this statue always, for it brings back memories 
of a town where great things were done for God among 
my Canadian soldiers, and of her who brought these 
things about. 

That evening, as I entered the class-room that was 
my billet, two figures looked up quickly: one was 
George, who had a right to be there; the other was 
one of the assistants in the veterinary section. There 
was a very strong odor of iodoform in the room. On 
a bench between the two soldiers was my wash-basin 
filled with some solution, and the little dog, who had 
broken his paw, was having it washed in the solution. 

I said nothing. I was not even cross, for I knew how 
difficult it was to procure a vessel in which to wash 
dogs’ broken paws. 




258 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter LXXXIV 

The Battle of Arras 

Our journey was uneventful, save that we were de¬ 
railed at St. Paul; no one, however, was killed. All 
along our journey we spoke of the Battle of Amiens, 
“the greatest isolated victory to the credit of Cana¬ 
dian arms.” It had taken but five days to free Amiens 
and its railway. The allied troops engaged in the 
battle were one American division, five Australian di¬ 
visions, four Canadian divisions and four English di¬ 
visions. There were also four hundred tanks and three 
British cavalry divisions. These troops had met and 
routed twenty German divisions, and taken twenty- 
two thousand prisoners and over four hundred guns. 
The line was advanced twelve miles from points held 
at the hour of attack on August 8th. 

Of these totals the Canadians claimed ten thousand 
prisoners, nearly one hundred and seventy guns, one 
thousand machine-guns, over one hundred trench mor¬ 
tars, and great quantities of other materials. They had 
freed over sixty miles of territory. They had been the 
apex of the wedge that attacked. It was, indeed, a 
great victory! Later, I read in Hindenburg’s account 
of the war, entitled “Out of My Life” (Harper & 
Brothers, New York), the following: 

“I had no illusions about the political effects of our 
defeat on August 8th. Our battles from July 15th to 
August 4th could be regarded, both abroad and at 
home, as the consequence of an unsuccessful but bold 



THE RED VINEYARD 


259 


stroke, such as may happen in any war. On the other 
hand, the failure of August 8th was revealed to all 
eyes as the consequences of an open weakness. To fail 
in an attack was a very different matter from being 
vanquished on the defense. The amount of booty 
which our enemy could publish to the world, spoke a 
clear language. Both the public at home and our 
allies could only listen in great anxiety. All the more 
urgent was it that we should keep our presence of mind 
and face the situation without illusions, but also with¬ 
out exaggerated pessimism. 

“The military situation had certainly become seri¬ 
ous. Of course the position on the part of our front 
which had been attacked could be restored, the lost 
war material made good, and fresh reserves brought up. 
But all this did not exhaust the effects of our defeat. 
We could only expect that, encouraged by his great 
victory, our enemy would now open similar attacks at 
other points.’’ (Vol. II, pp. 217 and 218.) 

This is just what we did. On August 26th the Sec¬ 
ond Canadian Division had opened the Battle of Arras 
and, as we hastened towards them, were in the thick 
of the fight. 

We detrained at Aubigny and were taken from there 
to Arras in busses. 

During the night of August 28th we moved up from 
the ruins of Arras to relieve the Second Division. We 
had been waiting in reserve at Arras. Already the 
Second Division had been gaining victories. Before 
September 1st we had gained a minor engagement or 
two. 



260 


THE RED VINEYARD 


On the morning of September 1st I received word 
that we were preparing for a great attack; we were 
to break the Drocourt Queant line. The line had been 
accounted impregnable, for the whole system was the 
result of years of patient toil on the part of the Ger¬ 
mans. In the attack, the Canadian Corps was to be 
the battering ram of the advance. 

The night of September 1st was very dark, and rain 
fell as the men assembled for the attack. Zero hour 
was to be 5 a. m. Captain Shea, one of the medical 
officers of the First Field Ambulance, with whom I 
was going to work the following day, found a square 
hole in the ground about two feet deep, and he and I 
rolled ourselves in our blankets and tried to sleep. The 
Germans were shelling this area very hard and shells 
were dropping all about us, and the rain upon us. 
Every little while I could hear the doctor, who was a 
very devout Catholic, give voice to the following solilo¬ 
quy: “Think of a priest lying out in the mud a night 
like this! What awful times we are living in! I won¬ 
der what his people at home would say if they could see 
him now. A priest sleeping in a mud-hole!” 

Then, perhaps, a shell would drop very near us and 
I could hear him say, optimistically: “Well, the worst 
we can expect is to be buried alive!” 

I could not help laughing as the doctor continued. 
Everything seemed so strange to him, for he had but 
lately come to the front. And I had now been long 
enough in the army to take things as they came. 

At five o’clock a. m. the earth began to thunder and 
rock as the terrible barrage began that was to sound 



THE RED VINEYARD 


261 


the death-knell of the Droconrt Queant line. We 
watched the men advance, then we were busy with 
the wounded. A great number passed through our 
hands, including some Irish lads from the Naval Divi¬ 
sion on our right. It took but an hour or two for the 
Canadians to break the Drocourt Queant line which 
had been considered impregnable. Passing through 
the trenches and over the battlefield that day, I mar¬ 
velled at the system of deep trenches from which led 
great dugouts lighted with electricity. We encountered 
many wounded Germans lying in shell holes, and dis¬ 
patched German prisoners to bring them to the Field 
Ambulance that had now been established near Cagni- 
court. 

We had not been shelled very much that day, but 
two or three days before, in one of the minor engage¬ 
ments, the shelling had been terrific. George and I 
had run the gauntlet of shell-fire known as a “creep¬ 
ing barrage.” Wall after wall of bursting shells had 
swept over us, killing nearly all our companions. George 
and two privates and I were the only ones out of four¬ 
teen who were not casualties. 

Towards evening, as I was anointing some German 
wounded, one of our prisoners, an officer, stepped over 
and began to speak to the lad to whom I was admin¬ 
istering. The officer told me in French that he would 
interpret, as he was a Catholic. I asked him to try to 
dispose the dying soldier for absolution. He did, and 
then helped me while I anointed the lad. 

When I was through I thanked the officer for his 
aid and remarked that he seemed well grounded in 



2G2 


THE RED VINEYARD 


his religion. He smiled a little at this, as he said: “ I 
should be, for I am an ordained deacon.” I was still 
talking to this young ecclesiastic when I heard a 
friendly call from a stretcher, and, looking in that di¬ 
rection, I saw it was Lt. Maxwell-Scott — he who had 
first served my Mass at Fosse-dix. It seemed years 
ago. He was wounded, though not seriously. 

The following day I waited, with an Anglican chap¬ 
lain from the Third Brigade, till all the dead were 
brought in from the battle-field. Among the officers of 
the Sixteenth were two or three of my dear friends. 
One was the gentle officer who had slept in my billet 
at Carency, months before — the one who had been 
called “Wild Bill;” even in death there was a gentle 
expression on his kind face. We buried one hundred 
and twenty-five that day, and called the place “Domin¬ 
ion Cemetery.” 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead 
And bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We remained in this area till September 4th, and 
each night we were bombed almost continuously. It 
was terrible and there were many casualties. One 
could scarcely count the airplanes. We could hear 
them coming from a great distance and each moment 
drawing nearer and nearer. We would lie on the 
ground unprotected — nothing between us and the air¬ 
planes but the thin sheets of our bivouacs. When they 
would arrive over our camping ground, great lights re- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


263 


sembling arc light would drop slowly down, lighting 
up the entire area. Then would come in quick succes¬ 
sion the awful crash of bursting bombs. Often I have 
gripped the grass beside me with both hands, as I lay 
there waiting to be blown into a thousand fragments. 
Then, one fleet of ’planes having exhausted its supply 
of bombs there would be relative silence till the next 
was heard aproaching. During the interim, slowly, 
silently, and anxiously, our searchlights swept the sky, 
the great long shafts of light crossing and recrossing 
each other. 


Chapter LXXXY 

Berneville Again 

“When they had a day or two of good sleep, regular 
meals and rest, they seemed quickly to forget all they 
had suffered, even their mental torture. Of course, 
for this purpose the rest had to be real rest, undis¬ 
turbed by enemy shells and bombs, and, if possible, 
somewhere where the thunder of the guns could not 
be heard.” 

I quote these words from the second volume of “Out 
of My Life” by Von Hindenburg, for they apply to 
all soldiers. The Germans had retreated to the oppo¬ 
site bank of the Canal du Nord, where they were pre¬ 
pared to defend themselves stoutly. To carry a po¬ 
sition like the Canal du Nord, careful plans must first 



264 


THE RED VINEYARD 


be made. Our troops were tired, and they needed a 
rest; therefore, on being relieved we came out to the 
areas about Arras and the Sixteenth came to Berne- 
ville. 

“The operations which broke the Drocourt Queant 
Line closed with the departure of the victors. These 
men had accomplished great deeds. They had won a 
great moral victory, which had far-reaching effects. 
They had conquered a trench system of which the world 
had spoken with bated breath in one triumphant rush. 
Many material things had passed from the enemy’s 
possession into theirs. Among these should be num¬ 
bered eight thousand prisoners, sixty-five guns and 
four hundred and seventy-five machine-guns. Their 
line was only seven miles from Cambrai.” (From 
“The Canadians in France,” by Captain Harwood 
Steel — Copp Clark Co.) 

The above quotation was written of us. So we came 
out to Berneville to rest. Those days of September 
were very pleasant at Berneville. Roses still bloomed 
in the garden of the old cure, with whom I was again 
billeted; grapes were plentiful all over the countryside. 
They grew in the garden of the old house where we 
had our mess and often they were served at our meals. 
Every morning when I came back from breakfast to my 
billet I found on the table a large yellow, red-cheeked 
pear. These little acts of kindness of the old cure’s 
sister used to affect me almost to tears. I think the 
awful strain of battle was beginning to affect us all. 
I said Mass every morning in the church and a young 
fellow from the Fifteenth — which was also quartered 



THE RED VINEYARD 


265 


in Berneville — used to serve it. Every morning he 
went to Holy Communion. 

The old sister of the cure seemed very much interest¬ 
ed in the young man, for she also attended my Mass 
and received Holy Communion daily. She used to talk 
to me about him and say he must be a brother from 
some religious community. So one morning I asked 
the lad his name. He was James Diamond, and his 
home was in Philadelphia — another of my Canadian 
lads who hailed from the United States. He was not 
a member of any religious community though he had 
two brothers who were priests. I told the old lady 
this, and although she was somewhat disappointed to 
learn that the young man was not a religious, still 
she was delighted to know that he had two brothers 
who were priests. 

I visited my battalions every day and we had con¬ 
fessions every evening. The men came in great num¬ 
bers. Although we were in rest, the lads knew by the 
training they were undergoing that another attack was 
imminent. 

During the day I often walked up and down the old 
rose garden of the cure. It was a beautiful old gar¬ 
den with high stone walls, against which pear trees 
and peach trees had been trained to grow so that the 
branches spread out against the wall. There were 
roses here of almost every variety. Often, as I walked 
up and down the paths of the garden reading my Bre¬ 
viary, I stopped and gazed for a long time on the won¬ 
derful beauty before me. Soon we would be into the 
war again! 



266 


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Chapter LXXXVI 

Letters of Sympathy 

During these days of rest I devoted a large portion 
of every morning to writing letters of sympathy to 
relatives of those who had fallen in the recent attacks. 
I had many of these letters to write, and I always 
went to work with a heavy heart; but it was always 
very consoling to receive the wonderful replies that 
came. I quote from a few that I managed to keep, 
although the reader will learn later that I lost nearly 
all my possessions before the end of the campaign. 

This one comes from Morningside Avenue, New York: 

Reverend dear Father: 

Your comforting letter has just been received. Father, words 
would be useless to try to express what relief and consolation 
your message brought, for naturally my heart ached, wonder¬ 
ing whether my poor son had an opportunity to offer up his 
repentence before God took him. 

The cross is indeed a heavy one to bear, but with the know¬ 
ledge contained in your letter and the fact that his sacrifice 
was made for so glorious a cause, I shall reconcile myself to 
the will of Almighty God, and pray for the repose of his soul. 

My daily prayers shall indeed be offered for you, Father, who 
brought such happiness to my heart, and for your many sol¬ 
dier boys. 

Very sincerely yours, 

The next is from Frontenac Street, Montreal: 

Reverend and dear Father: 

Words fail to convey how soothing was the intelligence that 
previous to his last attack my son had had the happiness of 
receiving our dear Lord, and that after he had paid the 



THE RED VINEYARD 


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11 Supreme Sacrifice ’ ’ he had one of God’s representatives near 
him. In life he was devoted to religion, in death he must 
assuredly be happy with God. But to us who are left it has 
been a crushing blow, and especially to me, his mother, to 
whom a kinder and more dutiful son never was given. 

Our Lady of Sorrows is certainly the one to turn to in this 
hour of trial, for she likewise gave up her son. So, like her, 
I shall endeavor to carry my cross, but I fear it shall not be 
carried so well. 

And now, dear Father, allow me to extend to you my most 
sincere thanks. You will always be remembered in the prayers 
of his sorrowing mother. 

The next is from Grimsary, England: 

Dear Father Murdoch: 

I should feel I was neglecting a great duty if I did not 
write a line to thank you for your kindness in informing us 
of my dear brother’s death. R. I. P. It was indeed a great 
consolation to know that he received Holy Communion before 
going into battle, also to know that he was buried in a ceme¬ 
tery. We shall be ever grateful to you for your kindness and 
for your prayers. 

With every best wish for your safety, I am, 

Yours sincerely, 

The next is from Gilford P. 0. Co. Down, Ireland: 

Dear Rev. Father: 

It is with a sad heart I write to thank you for your con¬ 
soling letter to my mother concerning the death of my poor 
brother. Your letter gives us all strength to bear our heavy 
burden of sorrow. It is hard to think that he has really gone 
from us. But God’s will be done! We all lift our hearts in 
thanksgiving to know that he was prepared to die. He was a 
good boy, and his youngest sister will miss him. My mother 
is in great sorrow at the loss of her only son. She has had 
great trouble, as my father died when we were very young. 



268 


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But God will give her strength to bear and persevere until 
we shall all meet never to part. 

Dear Rev. Father, I will close this letter now and I wish 
you to know that all of us will never forget you in our prayers. 
And I earnestly implore of God to reward you for all you 
have done for my poor brother and for us, and that our Most 
Holy Mother will intercede for your safety through this suf¬ 
fering you are enduring. 

I am going to confession and Communion Sunday for your 
intentions. Always remember that there are three hearts raised 
to God night and morning imploring His blessings and mercy 
for you. 

Thanking you again, Father, I wish to remain your grateful 
friend who will never forget you. 

This one from a non-Catholic: 

Rev. B. J. Murdoch, 

Dear Sir: 

I received your very kind letter today. Thank you so much 
for writing. Although I am not of the Catholic faith, I know 
just how much he would value your services before going into 
battle. 

God sends us a cross to bear, no matter what faith we own. 
I will remember you and the other soldiers who are fighting 
in my prayers just the same. I will write and tell his father 
of your kindness, and ask him to thank you. 

I forgot to say that I belong to the Church of England, but 
that does not make any difference, for God hears all prayers. 
I shall pray for you and your boys and teach our little girl 
to do the same. 

Kindly pardon any mistakes, and believe me to remain very 
grateful to you for your sympathy. 

Yours sincerely, 

These are but samples of letters from different coun¬ 
tries that I received during the campaign. The people 
seemed most grateful to me for writing. True, the cen- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


269 


sor prevented me from saying much that I should like 
to have said; but always I was free to write what I had 
done for the lads in my ministry. Sometimes I have 
written many letters at a time, and for this reason the 
message sent was brief. I shall try to give the reader 
a sample of the simple letter that evoked such grateful 
replies: 

Dear Mrs. - 

No doubt you have already received from the War Office 
the sad news of your son’s death. I am writing these 

words to let you know that just before the battle of - 

I gave all the soldiers of his unit Holy Communion in a little 
shell-torn church on the Western Front. — If I had anointed 
him I would add this, and if it were I who had laid him to rest 
I would say — I buried him in a peaceful military cemetery be¬ 
hind the lines, far from the sound of the guns. This know¬ 
ledge should give you some consolation in carrying the heavy 
cross that God has sent you to bear. 

I shall remember your son’s soul in the Holy Sacrifice of 
the Mass, and I shall ask Our Lady of Sorrows to pray for you 
that you may be comforted. 

Asking you to pray for my lads and for me, I am 

Yours sincerely in Christ, 

B. J. Murdoch, 

R. C. Chaplain 16th. Can. 


Chapter LXXXVII 

A Little Bit of Shamrock 

Although I had many letters to write, this did not 
keep me from having a little enjoyment. We had not 





270 


THE RED VINEYARD 


been very long in rest billets when it was announced 
that the Sixteenth Canadian Battalion concert party 
was to put on soon the play entitled “A Little Bit 
of Shamrock.” This was the play the soldiers were 
practising while we were at Monchy Breton, and be¬ 
cause of the fact that one of the characters was a 
priest I was very anxious to see the play. 

The concert party was to be with us three nights, 
so I hoped to be able to attend at least one perform¬ 
ance. The company had been playing for the large 
base-hospitals while we were taking part in the recent 
heavy fighting. I had met a Presbyterian chaplain 
in Arras who told me that he had seen the play and 
that it was one of the finest in France. They had 
been furnished with hundreds of dollars’ worth of 
scenery and costumes. So we looked forward with 
pleasure to seeing it. 

I noticed as I worked among the men that the rest 
was doing them very much good. The village streets 
used to ring with laughter and merry jokes, especially 
in the evening. It was wonderful how much like boys 
those soldiers would become, given a few days’ rest. 

I remember one day, while sitting in the mess wait¬ 
ing for lunch to be served, listening to an animated 
conversation going on among a group of soldiers, of 
which George was the dominating spirit. George held 
in his hand a pair of German field-glasses which evi¬ 
dently he wished to barter for something some 
other soldier had. The other soldier thought George 
had placed a too high valuation on the glasses, and 
their voices rose and fell in debate. Finally, all the 



THE RED VINEYARD 


271 


voices were silent; then the voice of George sounded 
clear and distinct, as he said impressively: “Gentle¬ 
men, I tell you, these glasses are so powerful that they 
will bring a church, miles distant, so near that you 
can actually hear the church bells ringing in the 
tower!” 

Although a few derisive groans greeted this state¬ 
ment, the great bursts of merry laughter that accom¬ 
panied them did my heart good and showed me how 
light-hearted were the troops. 

A day or two following the episode of the field- 
glasses, I was again sitting in the mess waiting for 
lunch to be served. The transport officer and quar¬ 
termaster were with me. Suddenly the lieutenant who 
had been billeting officer when we were at Ecoivres 
walked in and sat down. He had a little business 
with the quartermaster, and as he stated it his eyes 
turned towards the table, which was set for lunch, and 
rested longingly on a dish of cold bread-pudding with 
raisins in it. The pudding was cut in pieces resem- 
ling in size and shape an ordinary helping of Wash¬ 
ington pie; there were three slices in all. Now, I 
never liked bread-pudding, not even in war time; 
neither did the other two officers of the mess. So 
when the billeting officer made known to us his weak¬ 
ness for bread-pudding we gave him a most pressing 
invitation to have a piece. He took one piece, and as 
he ate it with great relish we could not help smiling. 
He stopped for a second or two and looked around 
on us. “My,” he said, “I like this! Our cook never 
thinks of giving us anything like this.” Then he 



272 


THE RED VINEYARD 


continued earnestly to devote his attention to the 
pudding. 

We offered him another piece, and with boyish de¬ 
light he accepted it. When he had finished this, I 
offered him the remaining slice. The other two offi¬ 
cers were now laughing. 

“Ah, Padre!” he said reproachfully, but his eye 
wavered and his hand without any apparent reluc¬ 
tance reached out and took the third piece. 

He stayed for a little while longer, and I wondered 
if he could be quite well after eating so great a quan¬ 
tity of such soggy food. I began, indeed, to feel a 
slight twinge of conscience. Perhaps I should not- 
have offered him that last thick slice of heavy bread¬ 
pudding. He was now quiet, and for a second or two 
a far-away look came into his eyes. Then, suddenly, 
he seemed to recollect something. He stood up quickly. 

“Well,” he said, “I think it is about time for me 
to be going home to lunch.” 

“Will he be all right?” I asked the other officers, 
as he disappeared on his way. 

“Sure,” they both said, and then the quartermaster 
Continued: “Why, Padre, that’s just a little hors 
d’oeuvres for him, just a little appetizer, just enough to 
convince him that it’s time to take a little substantial 
food.” Then, as we lunched, they told me such won¬ 
derful stories of this officer’s capacity for food that 
I laughed and laughed all through the meal. 

I could not attend the play till the third evening; 
George, who had gone both nights, seemed very anx¬ 
ious that I should see it. I had tea with the concert 



THE RED VINEYARD 


273 


party the afternoon of the third day and in the even¬ 
ing I went to the play, and was given a very good 
seat. 

I shall never forget that play given by those splen¬ 
did boys on the Western Front. Even as I write these 
words the tears come to my eyes as they did that 
night, but they are tears of joy. It was a wonderful 
play — wonderful in its presentation, wonderful, es¬ 
pecially, in its beautiful interpretation of the character 
of the Catholic priest — bubbling with gaiety and 
gladness, and spotless humor. I was transported with 
joy and amazement. 

The curtain rose, disclosing the library of an Irish 
priest’s house, through the open window of which 
came in excellent harmony the sound of male voices 
singing: 

‘ 1 Och, Father O ’Flynn, you’ve a wonderful way wid you. 

All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, 

All the young children are wild for to play wid you, 

You’ve such a way wid you, Father avick! 

Still for all you’ve so gentle a soul, 

Gad, you’ve your flock in the grandest control: 

Checking the crazy ones, coaxing unaisy ones, 

Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick. 

Here’s a health for you, Father O’Flynn, 

Slante and slante and slante agin, 

Pow’rfulest preacher and tindirest teacher 
And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.” 

As the last sounds of the chorus died away, a young 
Irish girl, attired in typical colleen fashion, and a boy 
of about nineteen or twenty, in knee-breeches, en¬ 
tered. The colleen was a perfect impersonation. The 



274 


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young man, who carried a gun and an empty game- 
bag, had returned from the chase. He was telling 
Molly how many birds he had seen and how many 
he might have shot had it not been for — etc., etc. 
The more voluble Shaun became, the more Molly 
shrugged her shoulders. It seemed Shaun had often 
hunted before, and had often come “very near hitting 
a bird.” 

Just as good-natured Shaun was becoming more elo¬ 
quent and Molly more disdainful, a stately old figure 
in cassock and cincture walked slowly into the room, 
carrying his breviary and biretta. There was a look 
of benign interest on his face as he regarded Shaun 
and Molly. The two greeted the priest warmly, in true 
Irish fashion; yet the three actors were non-Catholics. 

I am certain I did not follow the plot of the play. 
I was too delighted with Father O’Flynn. He was 
the ideal priest, genial, kind, grave. He possessed all 
those lovable qualities that we Catholics always asso¬ 
ciate with the priesthood. I was realty delighted with 
the impersonation of the character. Where had he, the 
actor, acquired his wonderful knowledge of the priest¬ 
hood? If it had been a play that the lads had pro¬ 
cured already written, I would not have been so sur¬ 
prised ; but they themselves had composed it. 

There was one scene that was almost uncanny in 
its faithful reproduction of one of the little dialogues 
that take place often in the office of a country parish 
priest. Old Mrs. Nolan — off the stage “she” was 
Private M. Dawes, No. 1 Platoon, Sixteenth Battalion, 
and in civil life an actor who had taken parts with 



THE RED VINEYARD 


275 


the great Du Maurier — had come to call on Father 
O’Flynn concerning her husband, who was not work¬ 
ing, and who for reasons known only to himself had 
no inclination to work. She spoke quietly at first, 
but gradually, animated by righteous indignation, a 
certain piquancy and forcefulness colored her words. 
She had just begun rightly to denounce “himself” 
when Father O’Flynn, with a gentle raising of one 
hand from his knee, where it had rested palm down¬ 
wards, said softly: “There, now, Mrs. Nolan! There, 
now! Don’t mind, it will be all right! It will be all 
right. In a little while Timmy’ll be at work again.” 

Then Mrs. Nolan, somewhat mollified, would con¬ 
cede: “Yis, Father! Yis, Father! Perhaps you’re 
right, Father. Indade, he’s not so bad; if he would 
stay away from that Dinny O’Shea, he might be better. 
And look, Father dear, I wouldn’t be mindin’ what 
that Liz of his would ever be saying. Look here, 
Father, if she’d stay at home and look after her man 
and not go galavantin’ over the parish! Look here, 
Father, she’s one of the worst—” 

Then with a gentle smile Father O’Flynn would 
again quiet the indignant Mrs. Nolan. But she was 
irrepressible. And as she continued her rapid-fire 
talk, the house roared with laughter, so that we for¬ 
got that we were in a building on the Western Front 
into which at any minute a long-distance shell might 
fall, killing and wounding half the people there. We 
forgot this completely as we continued to enjoy one 
of the finest plays ever staged on the Western Front. 

As I looked on, laughing heartily, another emotion 



276 


THE RED VINEYARD 


began to manifest itself; gradually, as I listened to 
the dialogue, the whole setting before me took on a 
certain familiarity: it was a priest’s room, my own 
language was being spoken, a scene was being enacted 
with which every priest is familiar. I felt as if I 
saw my Catholic people at home; then a kind of mist 
seemed to pass over me, and my eyes filled up — yes, 
gentle reader, I was lonesome! 

The old cure and his sister had waited up for me, 
to hear about the play. I had told them before leav¬ 
ing that I was going to see a non-Catholic take the 
part of a Catholic priest, and they had been very 
interested. They were like two children in their de¬ 
light when I came bursting in on them with the news 
of the play. They rejoiced with me when I told them 
how splendidly the part of Father O’Flynn had been 
taken by one of the lads. The old lady seemed the 
more enthusiastic of the two, until I told the story 
of Mrs. Nolan, then the cure broke into rippling laugh¬ 
ter; but Madame just smiled quietly. We talked for 
a long time that evening for the three of us were very 
pleased. I had told them before going that I had my 
fears lest the actor assigned the part of the priest 
should not interpret it according to the best tradi¬ 
tions of the priesthood. But now they were quite re¬ 
lieved, and very joyful when I told them that the play 
would be shown wherever there were Canadian sol¬ 
diers in France. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


277 


Chapter LXXXVIII 

Left Behind 

I was well satisfied with my work among the sol¬ 
diers during these evenings and we were all benefiting 
very much by our rest. But we did not know just 
how soon we would be going into action. One evening 
towards seven o’clock, on coming back to Berneville 
after having attended a meeting at corps headquarters, 
I found men of the Fourth Division walking up and 
down the street. I was somewhat surprised at this, 
for when I had left in the morning the village had been 
occupied only by First Division troops. Now I saw 
no men of the Third Brigade. I stopped the first 
soldier I met and asked him where was the Sixteenth. 

He told me he did not know, that the Sixteenth had 
“pulled out” about four o’clock and that another 
battalion had “taken over” these lines. 

I went quickly to the place our mess had been, only 
to find other officers occupying it. They were just 
about to sit down to dinner, and invited me to remain, 
but I was too eager to have news of my troops. This 
was the first time they had ever stolen a march on 
me. 

I opened the gate of the old cure’s garden, hoping 
to see George standing in the twilight somewhere 
among the roses; but there was no khaki-clad figure 
there. In fact, there was no one in the garden; every¬ 
thing was very quiet. Knocking on the door which led 
to the office and dining-room combined, I advanced 



278 


THE RED VINEYARD 


into the lamp-lit room to find the cure and his sister 
just about to sit down to their evening meal. They 
welcomed me warmly. It was good to see the kindly, 
beaming faces of my old friends; and as my eyes wan¬ 
dered from them to the table I saw that places had 
been set for three. 

“Come,” said the old priest as he motioned me to 
the seat beside him. “Come, you are just in time, 
for we were about to begin, fearing you would not 
arrive.” 

I sat down quickly, for I did not wish to delay any 
longer these good people. The memory of that even¬ 
ing is still very vivid; the low, lamp-lit room, with 
its quaint engravings on the wall, the old-fashioned 
furniture, the spotless white linen cloth, heavy silver 
and thick china, with blue scroll-work bordering of 
old chateaux and rustic-bridged streams. A large roll 
of coarse though wholesome brown bread, such as I 
had seen old “Mamma Katzenjammer” make some 
time before, was on a plate in the middle of the table, 
and beside this was a black-handled bread knife; a 
huge bottle of golden cider stood near the bread. Op¬ 
posite me was a wooden bowl of salad and a large 
wooden fork and spoon. 

Madame brought from the kitchen a small brown 
earthenware casserole and placed it before M. le Cure. 
The removal of the cover disclosed three plump little 
pigeons. Simultaneously M. le Cure and Madame 
looked at me. “In your honor,” said the priest as 
both bowed, jokingly. 

I remembered how, when a boy, I had shot a few 




THE RED VINEYARD 


279 


pigeons, which when cooked I was unable to eat, be¬ 
cause they were so tough. But the pigeons of old 
Madame were not tough. Indeed, I had never eaten 
any meat more tender. They had been pot roasted. 

It was one of the pleasantest evenings I had ever 
spent in rest billets. As we sat at table they told 
me that the battalion had left for the front at four 
o’clock. George had packed my bed-roll, and had 
placed it and my portable altar on the general service 
wagon, leaving my haversack with articles I would 
need for the night. He had left word that we would 
not be going into action for a day or two and that I 
would be quite safe in staying that night in Berne- 
ville. 

As we sat talking in the quiet lamp-lit room, and I 
realized all that was before me, I could not help think¬ 
ing how pleasant it would be to live on in this peaceful 
old house, far from the horrors of war, and preach to 
the quiet peasants, and teach them the ways of God. 
But quickly I put this thought from my mind. The 
Master for whom I labored had sterner work for me 
to do. And tomorrow morning early I must leave, to 
go once more into The Red Vineyard. 




280 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Chapter LXXXIX 

With the Fourteenth 

Early the following morning after Mass I said “au 
revoir” to the old priest and his sister, who walked 
down to the gate to see me oft. 

On the way, fearing it might be evening before I 
would find my battalion, I bought an ordinary three- 
ounce tin of sardines and paid sixty-five cents for it; 
but I never ate it. I had the great good fortune to 
meet a lorry, going towards the front, which brought 
me to within a few hundred yards of the Sixteenth 
Battalion, which was camped in a wide green valley. 
I was fortunate in finding my unit, but soon I was to 
learn of what was the first of a series of misfortunes. 

George met me as I came along and there was a look 
in his face that I had never seen there before. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have bad news for you,” he 
said. “Your bed-roll and all your belongings have 
been burned.” 

Poor George turned his face away. It really hurt 
him to have to tell anything so unpleasant. 

“My portable altar, too, George?” I questioned, as 
fear tugged at my heart. 

George turned towards me, his face brightening. 

“No, sir. We saved that. Everything in the little 
church is all right.” George always called the altar 
the “little church.” 

Then he went on to tell me that a fire had broken 
out, during the night, in the corrugated iron hut where 




THE RED VINEYARD 


281 


I was to have slept, and that when it was discovered 
it was too late to save two bed-rolls; he had managed, 
however, to bring out one bed-roll and my portable 
altar. 

It was now late in September and the evenings were 
becoming quite cold. I would miss very much my 
blankets, cloak and overcoat, all of which, together 
with many other articles, had been burned. I still 
had my trench coat, which I was wearing at the time. 

“Well, George,” I said finally, “it could have been 
a great deal worse. I am very thankful that I did not 
lose my trench coat.” 

A few evenings later, while I was standing outside 
my hut examining a new bicycle that had come to me 
from headquarters, a runner came up and passed me 
a D. R. L. S. letter. As I read it, I felt my hand 
tremble. I was to report immediately to the Four¬ 
teenth Battalion, where I was now attached for quar¬ 
ters and rations; Captain the Rev. G. Colthurst was to 
exchange places with me. He was a Church of Eng¬ 
land chaplain. 

That evening I left, my heart filled with regrets; 
but a soldier must obey. I said good-bye to George, 
although I hoped to see him often. He thanked me 
for the way I had treated him, though I had only given 
him the consideration which as a thorough gentleman 
he deserved. I thanked him in return for all he had 
done for me. Twice, if not oftener, during the recent 
heavy fighting he had come through a terrific barrage 
of shell-fire and gas to guide me to the transport mess. 



282 


THE RED VINEYARD 


He had actually risked his life where he was not 
bound to do so. 

The second in command of the Fourteenth, Major 
Price, welcomed me cordially to the battalion. The 
colonel was then absent. Major Price, though a very 
kind man with a most gentle disposition, held one of 
the finest records in the army, rising from a private 
in the ranks to be colonel of the battalion. 

The officers of the Fourteenth were a fine lot of men, 
yet they never filled the place in my affections that 
the officers of the Sixteenth had won. 


Chapter XC 

Telegraph Hill 

The following Sunday I said Mass on Telegraph Hill. 
It was a very high elevation and on all sides we could 
see, far below, the great green valley. I counted as 
many as six light railway trains steaming their way 
from different points towards the front. I think we 
were then about seven or eight miles from the Canal du 
Nord, where the next big battle was to take place. 
Some of the men came early and I stood talking to 
them till all the soldiers, excepting the Thirteenth 
Battalion, had come up. Thinking that there must be 
some mistake in orders and that they had failed to re¬ 
ceive notice of church service, I began to say Mass. 
I had a large crowd of lads and they were formed up 



THE RED VINEYARD 


283 


very near the altar; some stood almost touching the 
altar in order to keep the wind from extinguishing my 
candles. Nearly all my men had received the Sacra¬ 
ments while in rest, so I gave a general absolution to¬ 
day, then all went to Holy Communion. 

Just as I had given the last men Holy Communion 
the Thirteenth came up, their pipe band playing mer¬ 
rily. There was nothing left for me to do but say 
another Mass for them. It was very gratifying to 
notice, as I turned to make an announcement before be¬ 
ginning the second Mass, that many of the men who 
had received Holy Communion at the first Mass still 
remained kneeling on the ground as they made their 
thanksgiving. 

During the second Mass a number of German air¬ 
planes tried to fly near us, but from down in the valley 
our anti-aircraft guns barked and shells shrieked up¬ 
wards, bursting near the ’planes. All the men of the 
Thirteenth, after a general absolution, went to Holy 
Communion. 

I came down from Telegraph Hill that morning feel¬ 
ing that my men were now ready, spiritually, for battle. 


Chapter XCI 

Canal Du Nord 

On the night of September 26th we moved up to 
the trenches just before the Canal du Nord. It was a 



284 


THE RED VINEYARD 


rainy night and quite dark. We marched a long time, 
for our guides had lost their way. Finally, as we ap¬ 
proached the trenches, Verey lights hissed a trail of 
light through the sky and as they broke to descend we 
stood very still. Every little while orders came for 
us to fall on our faces, and we lay motionless on 
the ground listening to that strange, sweeping sound 
of machine-gun bullets as they tore their way through 
the air just above us. 

Before we entered the trenches we had supposed all 
the Germans to be on the opposite bank of Canal du 
Nord. But we were not in the trenches very long till 
we learned that there were machine-gun outposts on 
our own side. Indeed, not forty-eight yards from 
where we stood was a machine-gun nest. Every time 
a flash-light would show, or some one would speak 
above a whisper, there would be a rat-tat-tat from al¬ 
most beside us, and then a pattering of machine-gun 
bullets. I listened to the grim preparations that were 
being made to surround the nest just as soon as our 
barrage would open up. 

At 5:20 a. m. two thundering crashes from an 
eighteen-pound gun broke the stillness, then the whole 
barrage opened up, the like of which had never be¬ 
fore been heard on the Western Front. I quote below 
from “The Canadians in France.” 

“Never had the world known anything to compare 
with the strength and majesty of that terrible artillery 
fire. It was as if the pillars of the earth had fallen 
and God had struck the Germans in his anger. The 
gloom behind the advancing troops was blazing with 




THE RED VINEYARD 


285 


fire, and the gloom in front. The night overhead 
shrieked and moaned and howled with the passing 
of the shells, hurrying — hurrying — hurrying to keep 
their appointment with death. The German machine- 
gunners in the Canal and immediately behind it were 
blown to pieces and the German guns were throttled 
with their answers to their lips.” 

We stood in the trenches listening to the terrible 
roaring and crashing of the guns. When we spoke we 
were obliged to yell in order to make ourselves heard. 
It was still quite dark, yet all about us were sharp 
yellow flashes of light from our guns. In a little while 
the men were ready to start over the Canal. The 
officer in command looked at me. “Coming, Padre?” 
he asked. I smiled. I was not free to go then. I 
must stay with the doctor, to attend the wounded that 
would be brought in by the stretcher-bearers. Later 
I was to go with the field ambulance. 

Shortly after daylight I was moving along the 
Canal looking for the Second Field Ambulance, with 
which I was to follow, when I saw coming up through 
a shower of shell explosions the young officer who 
had come to see me at Monchy Breton. He was look¬ 
ing for the Sixteenth Battalion. He was no longer 
downhearted. The light of battle was in his clear 
blue eye. He shook hands with me and smiled a 
bright, fearless smile as the shells dropped about us. 
He told me he had been sent up to the battalion, which 
was sadly in need of officers. As he spoke, all about 
us were dead men and horses. 

I found the field ambulance at a cross-roads near 



286 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Inchy and I worked with them till noon. It was ter¬ 
rible work, performed under great difficulties, as all 
morning long a constant rain of enemy shells poured 
over the roads. A great number of wounded passed 
through. As the morning advanced, the day became 
very warm. I took off my trench coat and began 
to carry it on my arm. I remember laying it down 
on the side of the road as I went to minister to a 
wounded lad. When I had finished my work and 
had wiped the blood from my hands on the thick 
grass along side of the road, I turned to pick up my 
trench-coat. It was no longer where I had put it. I 
looked everywhere but I could not find it. It was a 
very serviceable coat, lined with oiled silk and rubber 
and impervious to rain and wind. Now I had no 
coat whatsoever. My overcoat and cloak had been 
burned, and now my trench-coat was gone! I often 
smile when I recall that morning. I worried more 
at the time over the loss of what was in the pockets 
than I did over the loss of the coat itself. In one 
pocket was the tin of sardines that I had bought a 
few days before. I had not yet broken my fast and 
I did not know when I might do so. In the other 
pocket was a “Baby Ben” alarm clock: it was very 
useful sometimes when I wanted to sleep between 
attacks. I never found the coat. I think some stretch¬ 
er-bearers must have placed it on a wounded man 
thinking it had been left by some officer who had been 
wounded or killed. 

It was now the 27th of September and I was not 
fitted out very well to stand the rigors of a fall cam- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


287 


paign. Just before I left the Sixteenth I had been 
given an old wagon cover, which George and I had 
converted into a bed-roll, and I had been able to pro¬ 
cure two army blankets; but now I had no overcoat. 

During a little lull in the afternoon I made my way 
to headquarters of the Fourteenth, which was in a 
dugout that the Germans had left them. There I had 
some food, after which I made my way back to the 
field ambulance. 

That night I slept on the opposite side of the Canal 
du Nord. We had gained another great victory and 
had captured one of the strongest positions that the 
enemy still held. Nearly five thousand prisoners had 
been taken and about one hundred field-guns, together 
with a great number of machine-guns and large quan¬ 
tities of stores. 

For several days one battle followed another; at 
almost every hour of the day some brigade of the 
Canadian corps was attacking. I followed with the 
field ambulance and I was kept very busy. 


Chapter XCII 

The Most Terrible Day 

On Sunday I could not have a church parade, but 
I said Mass in a bell tent near the Canal du Nord. 
That morning I joined the First Field Ambulance in 
a little village not very far from Cambrai. I think 



288 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the name of the village was Raillencourt. As I ap¬ 
proached its outskirts, I saw that it was under fire. 
Shell after shell was whistling over from the enemy 
lines, bursting in black clouds of smoke and yellow 
clouds of gas that mingled with red clouds of dust 
rising from the ruined brick buildings. No traffic was 
coming along the road. I must walk alone into the 
village. My will said, Go! yet every nerve in my 
body seemed to rebel; my feet were heavy as lead and 
it seemed an effort for me to lift them from the ground. 
I was now very tired from the work of the past week. 
Almost sick with fear, I continued to advance. It 
was a strange experience; my feet kept going heavily 
forwards while the rest of me seemed to be trying to 
hold them back. I felt that that hurt dazed look which 
I had seen so often in the eyes of the men was in 
my own eyes. 

I remember going down the little street of the village 
bewildered and almost stupefied while shells crashed 
into buildings and the sickening fumes of gas poisoned 
the air. Then, suddenly, I saw what I was in search 
of — a little red cross on a white background, float¬ 
ing from a window of a small house. 

I entered the yard; a ruined field kitchen lay in a 
lake of porridge, and nearby, where they had carried 
him to die, was the cook. 

I found the cellar filled with wounded men with 
whom the doctors were very busy. My old friend 
Captain 0’Shea was here and two other Catholic doc¬ 
tors. I stayed in the cellar two days. Those were 
horrible hours. I could not be relieved, as Father 




THE RED VINEYARD 


289 


O’Reilly of the Second Brigade had been wounded a 
day or two before I came to the cellar. It was his 
troops who were now in action. My own were back 
in reserve. While I worked, Canon Scott, an Anglican 
chaplain who had been in the war since the beginning, 
was brought in wounded. 

It was a miracle that we were not struck. At dif¬ 
ferent times during the day the Germans shelled the 
little house heavily; many shells dropped in the gar¬ 
den just outside the windows of the cellar. The nau¬ 
seating fumes from the gas shells penetrated into the 
cellar and often we worked with our gas masks on. 

At two o’clock Tuesday morning word came that 
my brigade was going over the top near Haynecourt. 
As soon as it was daylight, I left to join my troops. 
I found the Second or Third Field Ambulance, which 
was clearing that day at a cross-road near Cambrai. 
I could see the city from where we worked. I was 
very busy all day. At times the German airplanes 
swooped low over us and swept our wounded with their 
machine-guns. One poor fellow near me was riddled 
with bullets and I had just time enough to prepare 
him for death. 

Towards three o’clock I felt something was wrong. 
Wounded from the Fourteenth and Sixteenth were 
no longer coming in. The men of the Fifteenth were 
in reserve just behind where I worked. Seeing this, 
I started forward. The shell fire was intense, but I 
prayed the Blessed Virgin to see me through. I met 
a soldier from the Sixteenth who showed me where 
the soldiers were, but he advised me not to go any 



290 


THE RED VINEYARD 


farther. I’m afraid I was too worried about my men 
at the moment to heed advice of this kind. 

I found a number of them in a cutting of a railway, 
together with a lot of other troops. The battle was 
not going well; many members of the Fourteenth, cut 
off, had been taken prisoners. The young officer did 
not know where the rest were. I stayed with them, 
crouching in little holes in the side of the sunken road, 
and read my Breviary while the clay scattered by 
bursting shells fell on its open pages. 

Presently, I joined a party of stretcher-bearers go¬ 
ing out upon the field. The shelling was terrible as 
we passed down the cutting of the railroad. I was 
now getting among machine-gunners of the Third 
Division who had their guns set up in the side of the 
cutting. 

The stretcher-bearers had no sooner reached the field, 
than the Germans, seeing them, commenced firing with 
small shells at point-blank range over open sights. 

Three of the stretcher-bearers went down, two of 
them mortally wounded. I ran quickly to them and 
began to anoint one of them. The other bearers ran 
to points of safety and I was alone on the field. Those 
were the most terrible minutes of my life. I knew the 
enemy could see me and was firing at me for shells 
were crashing all about me. Terrified, I crouched flat 
on my stomach until I finished anointing the lad, who 
passed away before I had done my work. Then I 
rolled over and lay still, as if I were dead; a little 
later, I crawled from shell hole to shell hole, off the 
field. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


291 


When the roll was called that night seventy-one 
men out of six hundred answered. We had lost many 
prisoners. 

I could not find my battalion to march out with 
them. I had not eaten any food all day and it was 
now six o’clock. I had gone through the most ter¬ 
rible day of my life, and I was utterly dispirited. I 
had never before felt so strangely. Of course, we 
had had many engagements during the past week, and 
constantly I had been looking on men mangled and 
broken and torn; and, besides I had eaten scarcely 
anything. I seemed to be moving in a world that 
was all upset; somehow, suddenly, everything had 
gone wrong with the allies! I bumped along till final¬ 
ly I came to the dugout that had been occupied by 
the medical officer of the Fourteenth. He had gone, 
but he had left behind a white bag, resembling in size 
and shape an ordinary pillow-slip, half filled with 
sugar. I thought of taking it along with me, but I 
left it. As I moved on dazedly, suddenly I remem¬ 
bered I had seen the Fifteenth back in reserve. I 
had come through them in the morning on my way up 
to the Fourteenth. I would go to them and ask for 
something to eat. How I missed George! George 
would have had a breakfast for me in the morning, 
and would have found me in the evening. 

Headquarters of the Fifteenth were in a cellar, and 
a kind-hearted kilted laddie guided me to the door. 
I was greeted very kindly, and in a little while the 
waiter placed on the table some white bread and mar¬ 
garine and a plate of cold beef. 




292 


THE RED VINEYARD 


“I’m sorry,” said Major Girvin, 0. C., of the Fif¬ 
teenth Battalion, ‘ ‘ that we have no sugar, Padre. ’ ’ 

I then remembered the bag of sugar I had seen in 
the medical officer’s hut. If I had only brought it, 
I could have given it to the Fifteenth Battalion! 
I did not mind the lack of sugar in the tea. And I 
was not bothered that most of the smoke from the im¬ 
provised fire-place was floating out over the cellar 
instead of rising through the chimney. But I began 
to feel my spirits revive with the kindly talk of the 
officers. They seemed pleased that I had dropped in 
on them. The Fifteenth was the one battalion of the 
brigade that had no chaplain. They used to say jok¬ 
ingly that they were so good that they did not need 
a chaplain. 

I related my experiences of the day to the officers. 
They were sympathetic, for they had had many simi¬ 
lar ones. 

I stayed with them for an hour or two till the Twen¬ 
ty-sixth Battalion came to relieve them. The officer 
who took over from us was an old friend, and one of 
the very best Catholics of the old One Hundred and 
Thirty-Second Battalion. I was delighted to see Cap¬ 
tain Barry and we talked for a long time in the cellar. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


293 


Chapter XCIII 

In Reserve 

During the night we marched back to Inchy. Very 
early in the morning I found the transport of the 
Fourteenth and, later in the day, the remnants of 
the battalion. They were in reserve, some miles from 
the firing line, yet in a very hard-shelled area; to make 
matters worse, we were in an ammunition dump, one 
of the largest I had ever seen. It was a very poor 
place to bring men to rest after battle! 

There was a little Catholic chapel-tent here, similar 
to the one we had had at Ecurie Wood. In the after¬ 
noon I went up to this and found Father O’Sullivan 
of the First Divisional Engineers in charge. I slept 
in the chapel-tent that night. Just before I retired, 
a number of lads came in to see me. The last one 
was a runner from the Fourteenth. He had had a 
terrible time carrying messages to different companies 
of the battalion in the battle the previous day. He 
showed me his tunic, from which a bullet had torn a 
strip across the chest. He had only begun to speak of 
his narrow escape when he burst out crying and im¬ 
mediately left the tent. Father O’Sullivan was sleep¬ 
ing down in the lines of the engineers. The shelling 
was terrible; beyond description. Not far away whole 
train-loads of munitions were being hit by German 
shells and car after car was exploding with a deafening 
noise. A great many horses were being hit, for there 
were horse lines of the artillery nearby. Shell after 




294 THE RED VINEYARD 


shell was dropping around my tent; but I felt too 
tired to move. I remember my conscience bothering 
me a little as to whether I were justified in remaining 
in the tent when at any minute I might be blown up. 
After a little puzzling, I decided I was, and for this 
reason — perhaps, in looking for a place of safety, I 
might be struck by one of the shells. And at any 
minute Fritz might stop. 

I said Mass the following morning, and no words 
can express the consolation it gave me. I had not 
said Mass for five days — not since the previous Sun¬ 
day. We remained another night, but the shelling was 
so intense that it was no fit place for troops to rest in: 
so on Saturday afternoon we marched farther back. 
Many men whom we thought had been taken prisoners 
found their way back to the battalion; they had be¬ 
come separated from their companies and had lain 
hidden in shell-holes till they could come back in 
safety. As we now numbered nearly three hundred, 
we did not present an unfavorable appearance as we 
marched along. The band at the head of the column 
played “The Great Little Army” and “Sons of the 
Brave” and many other old favorites; already the 
lads were becoming more cheerful. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


295 


Chapter XCIY 

Frequent Moves 

It was afternoon when we came into our area, and 
it was Saturday. The doctor and I had been given a 
hut almost filled with German high explosives — bar¬ 
rels of cordite, rolls of gun-cotton and boxes of amenol 
were on all sides. There was just room for us to spread 
two bed-rolls on the floor. Woe unto anyone who 
smoked in this powder magazine! The cook-house was 
almost touching us, and sparks flew from the short 
stove-pipe that pierced the low roof. If a spark or 
two should happen to fall on our little room! The 
doctor became uneasy, and hearing that a field ambu¬ 
lance was quartered a few hundred feet away he left 
and found shelter with his brethren. 

During the afternoon we received a draft of three 
hundred fresh men to reinforce our shattered ranks. 
I watched them as they stood to attention and were in¬ 
spected by the colonel. Tomorrow I would have them 
at Mass, for it would be Sunday. 

Sunday morning the wind was blowing a rather stiff 
breeze, and as I was to say Mass out of doors, I knew 
it would be impossible to keep my candles lighted 
unless I should build a windshield — or break-wind. 
Accordingly, at nine o’clock I called the Englishman 
who had been appointed to look after my wants, and 
we went up to the field and tried to build the wind¬ 
shield. 

For nearly an hour we labored unsuccessfully with 



296 


THE RED VINEYARD 


the material we had at hand. I was quite discouraged 
when I heard the pipes of the Thirteenth Battalion 
coming up the road — and I had no place arranged to 
say Mass! I looked around, not knowing what to do 
next, and there, not more than a hundred yards away 
stood the remnants of the corner walls of a house — 
exactly what I had been trying to build. The two 
walls were just about five feet high and there was a 
trough about two feet high and three feet long built 
into the corner. Quickly the Englishman and I filled 
this with brick and in five minutes my altar was fitted 
up and ready for Mass. 

I had been told by the staff captain of the brigade 
to hurry, as the place where I was to say Mass was 
under German observation. I said Mass very quickly, 
dispensed with the sermon, and gave a general abso¬ 
lution to the men as they knelt on the green field 
among piles of shattered masonry. 

That evening we moved back to support trenches 
and I was not sorry to leave my munition store-room. 
The doctor and I were given a dugout to ourselves. 
As it was very cold, we made a little trench heater out 
of an old bean-tin, cutting a number of holes in the 
sides of it and filling it with pieces of paraffine candles 
and torn shreds of burlap. When we set fire to this 
we had quite a brazier. Headquarters was some dis¬ 
tance from our trench in a corrugated iron hut, and as 
Fritz was shelling a balloon headquarters not far 
away, we often had to run the gauntlet of shell-fire. 

We remained here nearly a week and it was rela¬ 
tively quiet. On October 9th, when we went over to 



THE RED VINEYARD 


297 


lunch, the colonel told us that the Canadians had taken 
Cambrai. The taking of Cambrai closed the battle of 
Arras-Cambrai, begun on August 26th, after we had 
come back from Amiens. From this date the Cana¬ 
dian Corps had advanced twenty-three miles, fighting 
for every yard of ground and overcoming tremendous 
obstacles. We had taken over eighteen thousand pri¬ 
soners, three hundred and seventy guns and two thou¬ 
sand machine-guns. 

We held the front line for a few days, then came out 
to reserve, where the Prince of Wales reviewed us. 


Chapter XCY 

SOMAINE 

On October 17th word was brought that the Ger¬ 
mans were falling back. The following day we crossed 
the Canal de la Sensee. Cyclists, cavalry and motor 
machine-guns were in immediate pursuit of the enemy. 

I shall never forget Saturday, October 19th, on 
which day word was brought to us by runners that 
there was a thickly populated city not far away called 
Somaine, from which the enemy were marching out. 
In a little while we would be marching in. 

It was evening when the draft I was accompanying 
marched into Somaine. The band was accompanying 
us. It had been silent for quite a while, as we did not 
know but that some lurking nest of machine-gunners 



298 


THE RED VINEYARD 


might be near to fire on us. It was dark as we passed 
the first group of houses near the city. I suppose the 
soldiers were wondering why the band was silent, for 
it was our invariable custom to play when entering a 
town. 

Suddenly, from the rear of the ranks, a voice calls 
out in the darkness: “Give us the band!” And then, 
“Good old band!” says another voice above the swing¬ 
ing, grating sound of marching feet over muddy cob¬ 
blestones. Then there is a great medley of calls, of 
which the motif is “Band! Band!” “Give us the 
band!” 

Usually when the lads voice their request for music 
the band always plays. Tonight, however, the lads 
call longer than usual and the young officer wrinkles 
his brow a little as he wonders if it would be wise to 
give the order. He begins to think that the responsi¬ 
bilities of a subordinate officer are great. Meanwhile, 
the lads keep calling for the band. Finally, the young 
officer decides to risk it and word goes relayed up to 
the bandmaster: “Let’s have the band.” 

The bandmaster turns slightly in the darkness and 
calls out, “Over There.” The bandsmen swing their 
instruments into position, while insistent demands for 
the band still come shouted from the rear of the ranks. 
The lads do not yet know that orders to play have 
been given. 

The snare-drums roll; the large drum booms three 
times, twice; there is a clash and a clang of cymbals. 
A cheer of satisfaction goes up from the marching lads. 
Then clearly in the darkness sound the inspiring notes 




THE RED VINEYARD 


299 


of “Over There.” As we march down the streets, 
doors fly open in the houses and grateful French peas¬ 
ants, who have been prisoners of the Germans for 
the last four years, come running to the street: old 
men standing by the wayside and, holding their hats 
in their hands, bow their heads. Women pass waffles 
and cups of coffee to the men, and little children run 
up and down the pavement shouting and dancing in 
their glee. But no bells ring from towers. These 
have been taken long ago to be melted into bullets and 
made into shells. 

We were billeted in very comfortable quarters in 
the town of Somaine. I called on the old cure and 
made arrangements for Mass for my lads the following 
morning. He asked me if I could say Mass at nine 
o’clock, as his Mass was to be at ten. This was done, 
and at ten o’clock I returned to the church to be pres¬ 
ent at the Mass of the parish. 

The church was crowded with people as the old 
priest, looking like the cure of Ars, with his beautiful 
white hair hanging down to his shoulders, came to the 
altar. He was naturally rather pale, but today his 
thin face was flushed and his clear blue eyes were 
lighted by excitement. I could not keep my eyes from 
the straight old figure that went so quickly up into the 
pulpit and faced his people. 

“Gratias agamus Domino Deo nostro!” — “Let us 
give thanks to the Lord Our God!” The words ring 
clearly out over the church. One wonders at the 
strength and clearness of the priest’s voice. As he 
continues: “Thirty years ago, my dear friends, when 



300 


THE RED VINEYARD 


I received the holy oils of priesthood those words of 
gratitude came to my mind. Five years ago, when I 
knelt at the feet of our Sovereign Pontiff to receive 
his blessing on the occasion of my silver jubilee of 
priesthood, again I said those words: ‘Gratias agamus 
Domino Deo nostro’ — ‘Let us give thanks to the Lord 
our God.’ But today as I stand at the altar of God, 
knowing that my people are free, knowing that after 
four years of continued intercession of the Sacred Heart 
of Jesus our prayer has been heard, my heart breaks 
forth in gratitude the like of which I have never be¬ 
fore experienced. ‘Gratias agamus Domino Deo nostro’ 
— ‘Let us give thanks to the Lord our God’!” 

Then the old priest continued his sermon, asking his 
people if they did not remember how he had told them 
never to give up; to keep on praying; that surely their 
prayers would be heard. Many eyes were wet when 
he finished his sermon. 

The following day, we pursued the enemy a few 
miles, for he was still retreating, but on Tuesday we 
were ordered back to rest. My brigade was in Fenain 
and Somaine and I was billeted with the saintly old 
cure. 


Chapter XCVI 

The End Draws Near 

Every day for about a week troops were almost con¬ 
tinuously passing through Somaine and all the heavy 



THE RED VINEYARD 


301 


guns were being brought up. Soon railway communi¬ 
cations were established and some of the people of the 
city were making visits to Paris. 

Every evening I used to sit with the cure in his little 
kitchen before the fire and tell him stories of the war. 
The old priest was kept very busy; his assistant, a young 
priest, had been taken, together with all the men of 
military age, by the Germans in their retreat. Almost 
every day I saw the hearse drawn up before his church 
and I knew another funeral cortege was soon to pass 
along the way. He spoke to me one evening of the 
frequent deaths, and then added: “The people are 
dying of joy.” True, the people had been so weakened 
through hunger that many were not able to stand the 
great joy of deliverance. It was pitiful to see the little 
boys and girls playing in the street. At first it seemed 
to me that they were all too tall for their years; then 
I knew it was that they were under-nourished. 

A touching incident occurred one day when I was 
called upon to bury a Catholic lad from one of the 
battalions of the Third Division, then fighting towards 
Valenciennes. As I read the prayers over him, a little 
French girl of about eight or nine years approached 
the grave, carrying in her hand an oblong box of 
Canadian biscuits. The little one was holding the box 
close to her side. I assumed that one of our lads had 
given it to her; they were forever doing such kind acts. 
Presently she saw that it was one of her gallant liber¬ 
ators over whom I was saying the last prayers. Im¬ 
mediately she began to sob and the big tears ran down 
her cheeks. She actually shook in a paroxysm of 



302 


THE RED VINEYARD 


grief. It was hard for the lads standing near, and for 
me, to go on with our work. Always during the war 
our hearts had been steeled, not knowing what was to 
come next. In a few minutes the mother came from 
somewhere behind us, took the child by the arm and 
gently led her away. 

We were in Somaine nearly three weeks and the men 
were greatly benefited by the rest. I recall a humor¬ 
ous incident that occurred during our stay there. One 
day the cure of Fenain, which was just five minutes’ 
run on my bicycle from Somaine, invited me over to a 
disinterment that was to take place in his cemetery. 
Having seen enough of gruesome things, I politely de¬ 
clined to be present. Then as I saw the cure’s face 
break into a smile, I felt there must be some joke, so 
I promised to attend. 

In my presence the casket was exhumed, and lo! 
gentle reader, there appeared beautiful vestments and 
precious altar-vessels, together with the municipal 
books and documents. Then the cure told me the 
story. The coffin had been filled with its strange con¬ 
tents and drawn solemnly in the hearse through the 
streets just as the Germans had taken over the town; 
and as the funeral procession moved through the street 
the Germans themselves had saluted through respect 
to the “Dead!” 



THE RED VINEYARD 


303 


Chapter XCVII 

November Eleventh 

November came, and I helped the parish priest of 
Somaine to give Holy Communion to the vast crowds 
of his people who received on All Saints Day. In re¬ 
turn, he helped me with the confessions of my men, 
for now nearly all the members of the Fourteenth 
Battalion and very many of the Thirteenth were 
French-speaking soldiers. I was beginning to feel that 
all were ready spiritually for more battles when No¬ 
vember 11th arrived and we learned that hostilities 
had ceased. 

If this were fiction, I might write a lengthy descrip¬ 
tion of how the troops went wild with joy, etc., etc.; 
but as it is the truth, I am constrained to say we took 
it in a strangely quiet manner. We could only look 
at each other and say: “Well, it’s over at last!” and 
we would add, “thank God!” Perhaps we were dazed 
by the good news. Perhaps it was that the terrible 
experience of war had left us incapable of expressing 
our emotion. Perhaps these verses from “The Citizen 
of No Man’s Land,” by Roselle Mercier Montgomery, 
express the strange tension that had come to us dur¬ 
ing the war: 

Why is it that, although we settle down 
And live the lives we lived, a strange unrest, 

A something, haunts us as we work or play — 

A restlessness too vague to he exprest? 



304 


THE RED VINEYARD 


Is it that we who, out there, walked with Death 
And knew the fellowship of Fear and Pain, 

Are citizens for aye of No Man’s Land 
And never shall be as we were again? 

To those of us who played the game out there, 
And saw brave men who failed to win lose all 
Where Fate was dealer, Life and Death the stake, 
Shall other games forevermore seem small? 

’Tis true that home is dear and love is sweet, 
And pleasant are our friends to be among, 

Yet, something lacks to us from No Man’s Land — 
Is it that no one here can speak our tongue? 

We cannot tell them what befell us there, 

For well we know they cannot understand; 

So each sits quiet by his own hearth fire, 

And sees therein the sights of No Man’s Land! 


******* 

They feel our strangeness, too — those at one side 
Who chatter of the things of every day; 

They mark our silences, our strange reserve, 

1 ‘ Ah, he is changed! ’ ’ they shake their heads and say. 

They say the dead return not, but I think 
We know, who have come back from No Man’s Land, 
How ghosts must feel, who walk familiar ways 
And yet find no one there to understand! 



THE RED VINEYARD 


305 


Chapter XCYIII 

Through Belgium 

The evening of the Armistice I was sitting with the 
old cure of Somaine when the Englishman came up to 
tell me that orders had come for the brigade to march 
in the morning. We were to follow the retiring Ger¬ 
mans, who had promised as one of the conditions of 
the Armistice to withdraw to a certain number of 
miles on the opposite side of the Rhine. 

I looked at the old cure; I had just been telling him 
that I expected a long rest now. And here we were 
to traverse all Belgium on foot, and continue through 
the Rhineland of Germany till we reached the opposite 
bank of the Rhine! 

At four o’clock in the morning, after I had received 
Holy Communion from the hand of the saintly old 
cure — I did not have time to say Mass — I left. It 
was a long march before us, yet we did not foresee that 
it was going to be interesting. We reached the border 
between France and Belgium before the end of the 
week. We descended a long hill, the band at the head 
of the column playing the “Marseillaise,” while on both 
sides of the road from many windows waved the tri¬ 
color of France. We then crossed a small bridge over 
a dyke, in the middle of which stood a pole about six 
feet high; at the top of the pole was a small metal 
sign-board about a foot long and eight inches high, 
running parallel with the road. On the end nearest 
us was the one word “France,” then a little line about 



306 


THE RED VINEYARD 


one inch long, then the word “Belgique.” So we 
stepped from France into Belgium, and the band, which 
was the first to cross the line, having ceased to play 
the “Marseillaise’’ began “La Brabaconne,” the na¬ 
tional anthem of the Belgians. 

We spent our first Sunday in a little place called 
Quaregnon, where we witnessed a demonstration of 
the wonderful patriotism of the Belgians. The church 
was crowded and after Mass the cure in stole and cope, 
intoned the “Te Deum.” Instantly all present took it 
up, and the great volume of sound filled the church as 
Belgian, Frenchman and Canadian joined in the mighty 
hymn of thanksgiving. Then the little cure did some¬ 
thing I had never seen done before: he turned towards 
the people and cried, “Long live Belgium, free, and in¬ 
dependent !” The people repeated his words. Then he 
cried, “Long live the Canadians, our liberators!” and 
as he passed to the sacristy a full orchestra played “Le 
Sambre et Meuse,” while a number of the congregation 
joined in this war-song of the French. 

At one place where we stopped a tall, thin priest 
spoke to me of the summer when the Germans had 
passed through — it seemed so long ago now, that 
summer of 1914 — when great train-loads of enemy 
soldiers passed his house daily. He recalled one train 
in particular: the cars were gaily decorated with 
flowers, bunting and flags, and from the engine floated 
a big white pennant on which was printed: “William 
of Germany, Emperor of Europe.” He recalled the 
endless battalions that passed along the highway, fully 
equipped from boot to helmet, marching in perfect or- 



THE RED VINEYARD 


307 


der. Their horses, too, were in excellent condition. 
Their wagons were shining. Every little while a voice 
from the ranks would call out, “Nach Paris! Nach 
Paris!”— “On to Paris! On to Paris!” and little Bel¬ 
gian children, terrified, scurried to cellar or other hid¬ 
ing places. “Yesterday,” continued the priest, “I 
saw the last of the German army pass through on their 
return march to Germany. They had scarcely any 
horses; and those that they had were extremely thin. 
Men were hauling wagons and carts. Their uniforms 
were worn and soiled; in fact, many were nondescript. 
Yesterday many of the boys remembering the words 
the Germans had called out on their way, four years 
before, standing on pavement or in doorways called 
out: “Nach Paris! Nach Paris!” — “On to Paris! On 
to Paris!” 

It was very pleasant marching off early every morn¬ 
ing while the band played some old favorite that had 
cheered the weary men after a hard day on the battle¬ 
field. All along the way, for the first week or two, 
we were greeted by happy peasants, who had been 
refugees for years, returning to their own country. 
Nearly always they pulled hand-carts piled high with 
bedding and gaily decorated with flags of the allies. 

I remember once on the roadside we found that the 
railway track had been blown up, and a great length 
of rails, with the sleepers still attached, had been 
thrown completely over a two-story building, like a 
wide, curving ladder. 

I found the Belgian priests very hospitable and very 
much interested in conditions in America. They were 



308 


THE RED VINEYARD 


filled with gratitude to the people of the United States. 

In many shop windows we saw a picture represent¬ 
ing the ocean, and Columbia passing bread across the 
waters to an emaciated woman sitting on the shore 
with two starving children near her. In the upper part 
of the picture were insets of President Wilson and 
Brand Whitlock, and underneath was written: “Grate¬ 
ful Belgium.” 

I was in a little town not far from Brussels the day 
the king came back. Most of the broken railways had 
not yet been repaired, and as the Germans had taken 
the horses away from the people, many walked from 
ten . to twenty miles to see the king come back to his 
kingdom. 

We marched by Waterloo and through an old monas¬ 
tery called Villers L’Abbey, built by St. Bernard. In 
one place where we halted over night was a tiny three- 
nave church of grey granite, which had been built in 
the ninth century. Napoleon had stopped here once 
in passing and had given a crown of gold for one of 
the statues. It was the finest three-nave church in the 
world. It was pure Roman architecture. 

Gradually we were drawing nearer the German bor¬ 
der. 




THE RED VINEYARD 


309 


Chapter XCIX 

Through the Rhineland 

Shortly before we reached the frontier one of the 
officers came into the mess and said to me: “It may 
be a little exciting crossing the line, Padre. I hear 
there are some revolutionists who are going to snipe 
at us.” 

I did not care for this kind of excitement. I felt 
I had seen all I wanted of shooting for the rest of my 
life. There was no need to worry, however, for our 
march into Germany was a very peaceful one. But no¬ 
body cheered us; no flags waved; everything was silent 
in the land as our khaki swung through the winding 
road. We passed through a very hilly country, and we 
soon had evidence that it was a Catholic country, for 
all along our march were little wayside shrines. 

Our first billet was a low, white farmhouse, very 
comfortably furnished. On the wall of our mess was 
an oleograph of the Holy Family; a similar copy had 
hung in my bed-room when I was a boy. Presently 
an old lady came in, looked at me and said something. 
I replied in French, but she shook her head. I pointed 
to the oleograph and said, “Katholisch?” 

The old lady looked at me, beaming. I pointed to 
myself and said, “Katholisch,” and then added, “Pres- 
ter,” as I thought this was the German word for priest. 
During my stay in that house I was treated as the 
Catholic priest is always treated by the humble. 

In one place a young woman, learning that I was a 



310 


THE RED VINEYARD 


priest, came to me with her brother, who spoke excel¬ 
lent English ; he had been a waiter in the Savoy Hotel, 
in London, previous to the war. The husband of the 
young woman had been killed in the war, and passing 
me her offering, she asked if I would say Mass for the 
repose of his soul the following morning in the village 
church. This I did, and while I said Mass the village 
choir sang two hymns. It was a low Mass I said, and 
in the color of the day. I asked the young man the 
name of the hymns and he told me. I cannot recall 
the name of the first one: but I think the second was 
entitled ‘ ‘ 0 Komm O Komm Emanuel. ’ ’ It must have 
been an Advent hymn, for I heard it almost every 
morning as I said Mass in those little churches of the 
Rhineland. 

I have never seen such excellent Catholics: every 
morning the village church would be crowded as if it 
were Sunday. Sometimes I gave communion to German 
people who came reverently to the rails. 

The time passed quickly and at last on December 
12th, we arrived in the city of Cologne. The following 
morning we marched across the Rhine, while the band 
played the “Regimental March” and “The British 
Grenadier;” the men with fixed bayonets marched 
rigidly to attention. Some officers near me sang softly 
the words: “When we wind up the watch on the 
Rhine. ’ 1 

We marched about twelve miles beyond the Rhine 
to a little place called Altenbruick. Here we halted. 
And it was here that I said good-bye to the battalion 
on Christmas Day. 



THE RED VINEYARD 


311 


We had Midnight Mass in the German church on the 
hill overlooking the village. Father Madden, who had 
returned to his battalion after being discharged from 
hospital, came to help me with confessions. My lads 
were scattered over different parishes, but I had ar¬ 
ranged for church parades for all who could come. I 
heard confessions from seven p. m. till midnight, and 
as the clock struck the midnight hour one of my lads 
from the Fourteenth began to sing that beautiful 
Christmas hymn which was being sung that night in 
French churches all over Canada, “Minuit, Chretiens ” 
(Holy Night). Every Christmas, just at midnight, I 
had heard it sung in the basilica of old Quebec, where 
I had made my studies for the priesthood. And as the 
clear, strong voice sang those beautiful notes of 
Gounod’s famous composition, memories of peace swept 
over my soul. I had seen horrible things; but now they 
were past and this was the night of the Christ Child, 
when the angels sang “peace on earth to men of good 
will.” 

I was fully vested, and was about to proceed to the 
altar for the last time before these lads, when the Ger¬ 
man parish priest came in to the sacristy. He spoke 
quickly in French, telling me that at the communion I 
need not descend to the rails; that he would give com¬ 
munion to my men. 

For an instant I seemed dazed. I had brought the 
Bread of Life so often to many of those soldiers and 
officers who now waited for me to draw near to the 
altar of God. Very likely I should never have the op¬ 
portunity of again ministering to them. But, then, I 



312 


THE RED VINEYARD 


thought, this German priest wishes to give commun¬ 
ion to my lads. Centuries before, the angels had sung: 
“Peace to men of good will.” I must show good will. 
Yet how hard it was! Then, mastering a great reluc¬ 
tance, I said quietly: “Very well, Father, you will 
give communion to my men.” 

So this is the last memory I hold of those wonderful 
soldier lads — the Midnight Mass at Altenbruick. The 
sound of the voice of the German priest, “Corpus 
Domini Nostri Jesu Christi,” etc., as he dispensed the 
mysteries of God to my soldier lads! And, above all 
else, the presence in our midst of Jesus of Nazareth, 
the Saviour of the world — The Prince of Peace! 


Chapter C 

L’Envoi 

It is all over now, yet often I think of those wonder¬ 
ful days; of long night marches; of long days of weary 
waiting; of quiet resting-places, with their rows and 
rows of “little green tents” and small white crosses, 
landmarks of our warfare in France and Flanders. 
Sometimes I think of all those lads who answered so 
quickly the final roll-call; and my thoughts go back to 
those nights in France where such great numbers knelt 
to ask pardon of God, and to become fortified with 
the Bread of the Strong. Many of those lads I ushered 
up to the gates of heaven, which swung open to them 



THE RED VINEYARD 


313 


so soon after they had left me. Now “they are num¬ 
bered amongst the children of God and their lot is 
with the saints.” 

They do not forget me. Sometimes, when the force 
of circumstances presses greatly and the way along 
which I must walk seems exceptionally hard, I call 
on them to stand by. I ask them simply to remember 
Arras, Amiens, Cherisy Valley, Canal du Nord and 
Cambrai, then — I feel those lads are praying for me. 

And sometimes “when thoughts of the last bitter 
hour come like a pall over my spirit,” a thought most 
comforting comes to my mind. I see in imagination 
the street of heaven and, coming marching towards 
me, great hosts, their faces lighted with the Vision of 
God. I see them turned towards me, as I have seen 
them so often on battlefield and in hospital ward. That 
look of loving trust is there — only so many times 
glorified! They look at me, who am a little dismayed, 
a little afraid. Then I hear their voices: “Come, 
Father, your billet is ready!” 

Then I feel very confident, for I know that my war¬ 
fare is over, that I am going back to rest — back to 
Eternal Rest. 


The End 




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